


a risk worth taking

by panshambles



Series: Minutt for minutt [3]
Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Even Bech Næsheim and Isak Valtersen Meet Differently, Angst, Colleagues!Evak, Drinking, Emotionally unavailable Isak, Even is forward, Eventual Smut, Feelings, Flirting, Forbidden Romance, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Isak Valtersen, Party, Runner!Isak, Smoking, The boys are vers, lots of feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-05-31 12:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 56,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15118967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panshambles/pseuds/panshambles
Summary: Isak starts a new graduate programme after he drops out of med school, and meets other grad entry, Even. They're colleagues but they can't date. Right? (Nope)--Friendship slow burn. The place where Isak and Even get their graduate jobs has strict rules that specifically forbid colleague romances. And aside from that, Even is majorly scarred from Mikael's rejection, and while Isak tries to help, he's guilty about his obvious feelings for Even, and worried that his relative inexperience would be a dealbreaker anyway. Isak is also a marathon runner, and Even goes to every one of his races. They find ways around The Rules.





	1. Is that a hint?

**Author's Note:**

> as promised, the Colleagues!Evak fic. In this one, the boys are 23/25, so also some grown-up Evak. i haven't forgotten about my other fic, til slutt, for those of you who have been sending messages & comments (thank you btw) <3 but i wanted to start something new before i said goodbye to that verse. 
> 
> i just got a new job and came out to my parents and graduated all in the same week, so apologies for the delay in my updates! it's been extremely Full On. but i'm back and ready for a new story, pals (plus i re-read tmtts and now my heart is crying again)
> 
> as far as i know there are no trigger warnings needed for this, so i hope you enjoy!

 

Sofienberg park is so beautiful at 7am, you wouldn’t know that it was once a graveyard. On this particular morning, a January morning when Oslo is at its darkest and coldest, it looks so peaceful covered in a thick layer of snow, lit only by streetlamps, it’s almost impossible to believe that it used to contain countless corpses.

Of course, the park hasn’t been a graveyard for a hundred years at least. But the fact is, it was where some people had once found their not-so-final resting place. Now it’s mostly a back yard for anyone who lives in Løkka.

Isak looks down at the park, out of his small living room window (which is also his kitchen window), and purses his lips when he sees four different people all out running already. His alarm has only just gone off and he’s gripping a cup of coffee in both hands, staring at the expanse of whiteness outside his window, wondering about Sophie Berg, the park’s namesake. She was the wife of some rich Oslo merchant in the nineteenth century. They had a villa nearby. Her nickname was Sossi.

The church in the park was originally named St Paul’s, then St Peter’s, and finally just Sofienberg church. Isak wonders how she would feel about that, about having her name given to a church she had no other connection to, wherever she was resting. He wonders if she had been buried in the cemetery, before it was considered too close to city limits, and most of the remains were removed to other cemeteries around the city. He wonders if his mother knew about Sophie Berg. If Sossi was a sweet or strange nickname. If he’ll ever have something named after him. Valtersensveien? Isakskirke? Maybe IV21699-2121, a star in the Gemini constellation that he had his eye on.

But Isak can’t wonder for long. He’s planned his morning out carefully: it’s the first day of his new job, after all.

\--

It’s 7.30am now, and Isak is dressed, and leaving his studio apartment. He wants to walk to work, skipping his plan to get the tram in. He wants to walk, to enjoy the brisk morning, even if it is pitch black: there’s something pleasant and secret about being awake and about while the city is still waking up.

He is nervous, too. And the walking helps ease it a bit.

Isak feels like he has _purpose_ for the first time, in a long time, what feels like an eternity. He has a future, now. And he’s earned every single bit of it.

In no small part thanks to the kollektiv. Once Isak got the job, they pooled their money to pay his first month’s rent in the studio flat he found (he really couldn’t stay longer on their tiny couch), with the promise he’d pay them back once his first payroll came in.

Isak wasn’t sure if Eskild, Linn and Noora weren’t actually angels.

That thought quickly leaves his mind when he remembers the seriousness of what he is about to do.

There had been a lengthy, intense pre-screening process for this job. All his references for the previous five years had been checked, along with a criminal records check, and countless other forms allowing them to conduct further screening procedures. At some stage along the line, Isak gave up trying to keep track. The worst they could ever find on him is some minor instances of shoplifting, or his habit of smoking weed—neither of which had happened in quite some time now. The intensity of the pre-screening process for this job prepared Isak for needing to be quick to adapt, for the expectation placed on him: they were serious about him as a candidate.

Among the pre-screening checks was also a **_heavily_** reiterated policy against work relationships. He had to sign at least three separate pages stating that he would not conduct any unprofessional interactions with his colleagues either on or off work grounds. They were apparently terrified of the threat to security, which again hammered home how much more serious this job was than Isak was used to from an employer. But then again, he was going to work for the government.

He reminds himself of this as he paces down Kirkegata, approaching the Ministry of Education and Research. The Ministry is housed in a neobaroque building from the 1910s: it was originally a bank, and the legacy of that fiscal history is enshrined still in its marble floors, its dark mahogany furnishings, its gilded light fixtures. 

He’d researched a lot while he’d waited for his start date. He didn’t realise beforehand that the Ministry funded and ran the Research Council and the Meteorological Institute. His heart leapt a bit at the prospect of helping either of those. He was already excited.

There was so much to look forward to—and it couldn’t have come at a better time.

He doesn’t even stop before the heavy doors, he just walks in. As soon as he shows his pass to the security guards inside the front door, he’s told to head into the basement, and find Room 21.21, where his manager Johanne will guide him through the first part of the process.

Despite the opulence of the foyer, it smells clinically clean. Isak feels at home in that sanitised scent after years of scrubbing in to surgeries. As soon as the thought occurs, he feels that familiar churning guilt in his gut. _So much time wasted_.

Following the guards’ instructions, he walks straight over to the lifts and presses ‘down.’ He tries not to feel overwhelmed. He _tries_.

As a stark contrast to the ground floor, the basement is all concrete and steel, with the low hum of air conditioning following him around every corner. It’s a maze of grey walls, grey doors, grey carpet.

’21.21,’ he repeats to himself, and he laughs at the number—his mother told him when he came out that he was born at 21.21. _How weird is that_. It’s a nervous laugh, though. He feels it clench in his chest.

Finally he arrives, and knocks hesitantly on the door. It looks like every other door in the place.

No answer.

He knocks again.

Still no answer.

After a few minutes of waiting aimlessly Isak starts to panic. _Did security tell me 21.21 or did I confuse it for something else? Fuck, what if Johanne is waiting for me and wondering why the fuck I’m late on my first day, what if—_

But then he hears quick footsteps round the corner and he turns to face a woman running to him.

‘Isak! There you are. Sorry I’m late. Bit of a rough one this morning,’ she explains hurriedly, as she fiddles with her keys and tries to find the right one.

As she does, Isak gives her some reassurances, but he also notices that she’s clearly not showered that morning, that her clothes are creased and rumpled, that her makeup looks like she’s been wearing it since yesterday. _Shit_ , he thinks. _She’s been working all night_.

He prepares himself for having to meet the same standard.

‘There we go,’ she mutters, as she swings the door open.

Isak follows her, jittery with nerves but excited for what is about to happen. When she closes the door behind him, he looks around the room at the stained carpet, the harsh square ceiling lights, the countless cabinets along the walls with rows of shelves of boxes in between. Right in the middle of the room is a standard rectangle desk—just a tabletop and four legs—with two ancient-looking computer-type things on it facing opposite directions. Two people could be sitting across from each other and never know the other person was there.

‘This is the microfiche archive for the Department of Education & Training,’ Johanne explains. ‘This is where you’ll start. We’re way behind on digitisation of our records, and we don’t know if we can afford to just get rid of all this information. So—it might be a slow job, but it’s vital for the Department.’

Isak is a little lost. ‘Ok. First question, what’s a microfiche?’

‘Fuck, you’re young,’ she says, more to herself than to Isak. ‘Right. Well, good question. You’ll need to know that to get anywhere.’

Isak gives her a half smile. There’s something refreshingly genuine about Johanne.

‘Well—microfiche is kind of what we had before scanners were a thing? It’s basically like a photograph, like, the actual material is very like old film type material. And the idea is the same: you had to capture the newspaper or note or whatever on that film. Then once we did that, we filed it all away.’

She points at the many cabinets and shelves. Suddenly Isak starts to realise the scale of this job, and that it’s nowhere near as important as he’d thought. That in reality, it’s a glorified secretary gig.

‘But the difference is,’ Johanne continues, ‘it’s a microphotograph, so each little A6 size file will have thirty or so “scans” on it, for want of a better word, and those machines on the desk there are basically big magnifying glasses that enlarge it onto a screen so they can be seen properly by the naked eye.’

‘How do we digitise it?’ Isak asks, hoping he was about to transcribe some either highly confidential or extremely interesting information—because this was deflating his grand ideas of what job he had just started.

‘I’ve just called IT to send over two laptops. So you’ll need to type by hand the information from each file as you look through it on the microfiche machine. Unfortunately our machines don’t have printers attached, so you’re gonna have to do it the manual way. Anyway, as you type out everything, you need to save it all to a shared server drive. We don’t know half of what’s actually in here, so you’ll be in charge of organising it on the disk drive, too.’

‘Oh,’ Isak says. _They’re giving a lot of trust over on very little knowledge._

_There mustn’t be anything of real value in here._

_Jesus._

‘Sound ok?’ Johanne asks.

‘Yeah, of course,’ Isak says. ‘So—where should I start?’

She smiles a rueful smile. ‘Oh, boy. Wherever you want. You’ll be in here a while.’ She gives him a quick tap on the shoulder and then leaves him alone.

With the swift click of the door behind her, Isak lets his shoulders sag.

‘Fuck sake,’ he says aloud to the room, to no one.

He takes off his formal jacket and hangs it on the back of the chair.

 _Maybe all the pre-screening was for something. Maybe this is really going to be interesting_.

\--

Isak was wrong.

It’s dull as hell. He expects that maybe Johanne might come check on his progress at least, so for the first four days he is careful to keep his phone on silent and his updates to the server clean and concise. But apart from her early morning check-in to see he’s shown up for work, Isak never sees her.

He did try to get into the work. But from first going over every cabinet and box in the room, Isak quickly surmised that most of the files in there were old catalogues, memos, policy changes, event plans, room bookings, schedules, and other meaningless shit from the 1940s to the 1980s.

Four decades. Of crap.

Which Isak now has to go through word-for-word, because the microfiche machine doesn’t have a printer, and the microphotographs were almost impossible to scan and enlarge digitally without turning into impenetrable pixelated garbage.

What was worse, was that staring at small images on a dark screen in an underground room makes his eyes strain and occasionally gives him tension headaches. He soon realises that he has to take a break every 40 minutes if he wants to get through the day.

Now he wonders if the reason there was a boilerplate no-relationships policy was because he is left to his own devices for 8 hours a day and all that boredom makes him really horny.

(Isak would never jerk off on government property. Ok, maybe a few times. But it was his lunch break and he was so damn bored.)

The boredom soon bleeds into bitterness. _What was the point of all those non-disclosure agreements? The intense scrutiny into his previous employment history? The reference checks? Anyone could fucking do this._

But it’s money. He keeps reminding himself. It’s money, a steady stream of money for not a lot of work, and he is in no position to compromise on that.

Not if he wanted to keep his nice little flat and his independence and his pride. Not to mention the fact that he has no other option.

\--

Isak had been overjoyed when he got offered the job. Three days into it, that feeling had long gone.

But still, the job offer, when it first arrived, had been a welcome relief.

It had come after months of rejections, disappointments, unpaid bills, and testing the patience of all his friends and family.

When the letter arrived, Isak fell to his knees—actually fell to his knees—in the kollektiv kitchen. Eskild thought someone had died.

When Isak pushed the letter into his hands, he shrieked and fell to his knees right next to Isak, wrapping both arms around him, whispering, ‘I’m so proud of you.’ Isak immediately realised it was the first time anyone had said that to him.

The party the kollektiv threw that night made all of their neighbours complain. But Isak couldn’t regret it. Not when he was surrounded by his friends, all of his friends, the people he’d avoided and shunned and hurt by being scared and lonely. Jonas and Eva, Vilde and Noora, Eskild and Linn, Magnus and whatever Tinder date he was stringing along that night. Mahdi even skyped from Stockholm to congratulate him.

They asked when he started—not for another month, he explained. And he explained the whole pre-screening process: the criminal records check, reference checks, terrorist checks. He was working for the government now, it was serious shit.

‘But like, what are you gonna be doing?’ Mahdi asked, his voice pixelated and breaking up over the bad Skype connection.

‘I don’t know,’ Isak laughed happily, downing his third beer. ‘It’s a graduate programme, so I’ll probably get a lot of training in different departments before I get placed anywhere specific. The job description hammered home how time sensitive a lot of it is going to be, though. So, I imagine it’ll be a lot of deadlines and confidential material. I mean, shit, they won’t even let us date.’

‘ _What_?’ shrieked Vilde. ‘They can’t forbid you from dating!’

‘No, no,’ Isak said, ‘I don’t mean _at all_. I mean like—each other. There’s an intense clause in my contract which stipulates that any kind of shenanigans between colleagues will immediately lead to termination. It’s a security risk, confidentiality risk—like, I’ve signed so many non-disclosure agreements, you wouldn’t believe. They’re serious with this. Plus, y’know, colleagues dating is always a bad fucking idea.’

‘Fuck,’ Jonas said, his arm wrapped around a now-asleep Eva on the couch. ‘That _is_ intense. Surely they realise though that as soon as you forbid something it makes it even more tantalising? Like, that’s a rule that someone _will_ break.’

‘I mean, I guess,’ Isak replied, shrugging, ‘but you break it, you better be prepared to lose your job. And it’s fucking hard enough to get a job these days. Who’d squander that on some stupid office fling?’

\--

It’s Thursday morning of Isak’s first week. He’s squashed into the 11 tram to Stortorvet, clutching a dripping wet umbrella in one hand and his satchel in the other. _Why the fuck am I even carrying a satchel? It’s not like I need anything at this piece of shit job apart from a packed lunch and my headphones._

Somehow the satchel makes Isak feel more professional, more in control of things. If he has a satchel and is freshly showered and wears a suit and tie to work, even if the work was mindless and worthless labour, he can feel good about himself.

He feels less good at this moment, however, sandwiched between another civil servant wearing a slick rainjacket that is soaking most of Isak’s right side, and a Japanese tourist family who for some reason are up and about in the morning rush hour.

Just as the tram pulls up at Jernbanetorget ( _one more_ , Isak hummed to himself, _just one more stop_ ), the civil servant on Isak’s right is pushed over by a panicked businessman shoving through the mass of people to try and get to the doors in time.

Isak’s feet lose traction on the wet floor just as the civil servants’ had, and they both careen into the family of tourists, all going down like a stack of dominos. In the process, the civil servant’s boiling hot takeaway coffee spills all over Isak’s trousers and white shirt. It all happens so quickly and with such inevitable totality that Isak barely registers the sting of the hot coffee all over himself, too embarrassed and annoyed at being sprawled across a group of strangers on the floor of a dirty, wet tram.

He scrambles back to his feet, helping a few of the other toppled passengers up, too, and waves away the civil servant’s apologies and offers to pay for his dry cleaning. It’s all unbearably awkward, and he can’t tolerate having to dwell on it any longer. Thankfully, Stortorvet is the next stop, and Isak decides that this must be his quota for the day’s bad karma.

He rushes down the street, skidding on some of the packed snow and icy patches, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck, and losing some of the feeling in his nose, which is probably running by now, too. The sooner he gets into his crappy little basement office, the sooner he can put on the next episode of his favourite podcast, amp up the heating, and feel fully dry for the first time since leaving the flat.

As he enters the Ministry, his shoulders fall in some relief at being inside again, and he heads straight for the lifts. He delicately removes his suit jacket, which is still wet on one side, with an added coffee stain now, and takes off his shirt, too, once he gets inside the elevator. No-one cares that he might walk around in just an undershirt because no one will see him, and even if they did, he wasn’t important enough for anyone to comment on it.

Bypassing the microfiche room, Isak heads directly for the makeshift kitchen: it is really a utility closet that someone had ‘renovated’ to fit one sink—the cupboard beneath which is where you can house your cutlery on a plain shelf—one electric kettle, and one minifridge. Isak fills and turns on the kettle, while he fishes in the cupboard for some dish soap. Once the kettle boils, he pours some of the water into a conveniently placed plastic wash bowl, and tops it up with cold water from the tap until it’s lukewarm. Satisfied with it, Isak squeezes a healthy amount of dish soap in and mixes it together until it’s nice and lathered. He then dips the stained parts of the shirt into the bowl and leaves it to soak for five minutes, during which he wastes some time on Instagram wondering if it’s too desperate to slide into someone’s DMs before 9am. Once the water is cold, Isak takes the shirt out, then rinses it and washes it again in the sink. He looks at the results of his work: there is definitely still the hint of a coffee stain, but it is mostly gone. The dry cleaner could do the rest.

Though he’s now getting into the office a good twenty minutes late, Isak figures Johanne would understand—if she even shows up that morning to check on him. He takes out his keys for the microfiche room and twists the right one in the lock. The lack of resistance is alarming. _Why is the door already open? Fuck, did I not lock up last night, shit—_

But Isak’s train of thought comes to an abrupt stop when he opens the door and looks inside the room. At the desk sits a ludicrously long man—really, his legs go _all_ the way under the table and even under the opposite chair—whose head turns at the sound of Isak entering the room. That is what made Isak’s thoughts disperse.

This man is—attractive. There is no getting around that fact. He is just an attractive, good-looking, handsome, _hot, hot, hot_ man. Isak detests how much he finds him attractive on first glance, how much he can already sense the eagerness to please within come to the fore. But the fact remains, this is a hot man. And no small part of Isak is also pleased about that.

‘Hey,’ he says, straightening up in his seat, before standing up and walking towards Isak. ‘I’m Even, I’m another start on the graduate programme.’

Isak automatically mirrors Even’s hand reaching out for a handshake, and ignores the part of him that preens and melts when they make contact. ‘Morning. I’m Isak.’

Even smiles—a wide, attractive smile, _damnit_ —and his eyes flit down to Isak’s chest.

_Uh, forward much._

‘If I’d known the dress code was so informal I’d have left my tie at home,’ he says, his mouth still set in a big smile.

Isak suddenly remembers he’s still holding his stained wet shirt in his left hand. And that his undershirt is essentially a tight-fitting white tank top.

‘Oh, fu- I mean. A guy on the tram fell and his coffee went everywhere—’ Somehow explaining it made it sound ridiculous. _Why did this have to happen this morning, why_ now _?_

‘Please, don’t think I was complaining. Quite the opposite, actually,’ Even says.

His eyes have a twinkle in them that tell Isak this is…flirting, the hot man is flirting with him. The smirk on Even’s face back that observation up definitively.

But before Isak can respond—before he even knows _how_ to respond to the hot man flirting with him—the door opens and in walks Johanne, harried as usual.

‘Good morning Isak,’ she says, holding a coffee cup in one hand and her eyes still glued to her phone in the other hand, ‘we’ve got a new start today, I’m not sure if you’ve—'

She stops speaking when her eyes fall on Even. In fact, she stops walking. Her mouth drops a bit and her eyebrows raise, her face flushes.

 _Damn_ , Isak thinks. He just has that effect on everyone.

But then Isak realises the room is silent, and he looks quickly at Even. Who is also reacting strangely at seeing Johanne—his eyes are wide and he’s not talking, either. In fact they’re both just looking at each other, until they both clear their throats and force out some introductions.

‘Ah. Yes. You must be—Even. I’m Johanne,’ Johanne says, extending her hand.

Even gets to his feet, tripping a little on one of the legs of the chair, and stammering through a response. ‘Hi. Yes. Um, yeah. Hi. Johanne. Pleasure.’

They shake hands for the briefest moment, and then both fidget strangely and look at the ground. Isak watches the entire interaction in bemusement and confusion. And not a little bit of jealousy. It seems like there’s this profound… _tension_ between the two of them. It’s uncomfortable to watch, but Isak surmises it’s because he wants Even to be that flustered around _him_. Which is ridiculous. He’s known the guy for less than five minutes.

Finally Johanne redirects her gaze to Isak. ‘I assume you’ve both—Isak, why aren’t you wearing your shirt?’

Isak flushes and curses himself internally. ‘Sorry, Johanne. Someone spilled their coffee all over me on the tram so I just rinsed it in the sink—’

‘Oh, okay,’ she says, interrupting, seemingly eager to get out of the conversation. ‘Yeah, that’s—that’s fine. Seems like it’s that kind of morning.’

Another awkward pause descends. Out of instinct Isak tilts his head back and looks askance at the scene unfolding in front of him. Even has both hands in his back pockets, Johanne is fiddling with her phone, and they’re both pointedly not making eye contact.

‘Well,’ Johanne says, clearing her throat again. ‘Even, Isak will fill you in on what we need you both to do here. I have to run – to a meeting. I’ll be back to check in with your progress, so. Yeah.’

With that, she leaves.

As soon as the door closes, silence fills the room. Even shifts from foot to foot, seemingly unsure what to say, and Isak looks at him, feeling similarly uncertain about whatever just happened. Not to mention he’s still just wearing a tank top and feels kind of exposed.

‘This is kind of a strange day, huh?’ Isak says, before he can stop himself. The silence was dragging on and he reacted before he’d realised.

Even laughs, a lovely laugh that Isak can’t help but mirror. ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘you could say that.’

They both walk in tandem to the microfiche machines, and Even looks at Isak for direction. ‘So…’ he prompts.

‘So…’ Isak echoes, but they’re both still wearing goofy smiles on their faces.

‘What exactly are we doing here?’ Even finally asks.

Isak represses the naughtier answers to that question and runs through what Johanne explained to him on his first day. The longer he talks, the more Even seems to be experiencing a similar plummeting disappointment.

‘Oh,’ he says when Isak finishes. ‘So we’re … basically … transcribing half-legible notes from the 50s and … saving them to a folder noone’s ever gonna read?’

Isak nods. ‘Yeah that’s about the size of it.’

‘And we had to swear we’d never manipulated the stock markets or harboured terrorist tendencies to get this gig?’ Even continues, baffled.

Shrugging, Isak doesn’t try to stop the smile that spreads across his face. ‘I mean, it pays the bills,’ he offers, finally. ‘Or at least, that’s what I tell myself when I start freaking about what the fuck I’m doing down here.’

‘You’re a wiser man than me,’ Even replies.

They’re both perched on the table next to the machines, now, facing each other. Isak wishes this conversation were taking place at a bar or in his living room—somewhere they could take out some alcohol or weed or _anything_. Because all of a sudden he’s realising he is now going to be spending _eight hours a day_ in close quarters with this _aggressively good looking guy_ and he’s going to have to do it completely sober. And most importantly of all, there is under no circumstances any chance of anything happening. They’re contractually obliged to stay strictly professional.

‘I highly doubt that,’ Isak replies, redirecting his focus away from the creeping sense of dread inside. ‘Not many people would call me “wise”.’

‘Why’s that?’ Even prompts. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, that is.’

Isak considers him for a moment. There’s something genuine about him. Something earnest. But Isak doesn’t want to explain himself just yet.

‘I don’t mind,’ Isak says, waving his hand off in a gesture _attempting_ to be casual, ‘but it’s something I usually only talk about with a drink in my hand.’

Even smirks. ‘Is that a hint?’

Isak pauses and takes in what Even’s just said. And he blushes, furiously. He suddenly can’t make eye contact again, afraid to see what kind of mischievous expression might be on Even’s face. Afraid to let Even see how much the flirting is making him tongue-tied and flustered. _Seriously am I fifteen again, or what_.

‘Ha,’ Isak deadpans, ‘hardly. Unless you wanna lose your job for the sake of hearing a very long and boring story.’

Even is quiet for a moment, and then Isak hears him exhale. (He’s still not looking at him, fixating instead on the nails of his right hand.)

‘Right,’ Even says, almost to himself. ‘The no-dating thing. I was wondering if that’s not just a kind of formality in their HR procedures though.’

‘You’d call three different contractual promises just a formality?’

Even shrugs, taking out his snus tin, and fishing out a portion, places it between his upper lip and gum. Isak watches in disgust.

‘Not a snus guy?’ Even asks, apparently noticing Isak’s grimace. ‘Or are you just grumpy you don’t have any?’

‘Snus is revolting,’ Isak says before he can stop himself. ‘Honestly if you want a nicotine hit then why not smoke a cigarette like a normal person?’

‘Because we’re in a government building and it’s illegal to smoke inside?’ Even retorts.

‘Yeah but you don’t have any cigarettes in that pocket, I can guarantee it. You just like snus.’

‘You seem very sure,’ Even says, smirk in full force once more.

‘I am,’ Isak sniffs. ‘You seem like just the type.’

‘The type?’ Even repeats. ‘What type is that?’

‘Artsy hipster type, drinks only at Tim Wendelboe’s, thinks he can DJ but can’t, takes insufferable photos for instagram likes from other artsy hipster types, yknow the usual.’ Isak can barely believe he’s being this salty with someone he’s just met, but Even encourages him with a smile.

‘You’ve got me all figured out, huh,’ he says, twirling the snus tin in his right hand.

‘Yeah I think I’ve got you sussed,’ Isak replies, and he feels how his body is already turned towards Even, already speaking in a suggestive language. It’s unconsciously done, but here he is, shoulders back, chest out, looking at Even through his lashes, and flirting _back_.

‘We’ll see about that, Valtersen,’ Even laughs, before wandering over to the first cabinet behind the door to trawl for some files.

And if Isak stares a little too long at him while he does so, who’s to know.

\--

What takes him a little longer to know, is how Even knew his last name.


	2. I have no fucking clue what I'm doing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isak is isolated, and struggles with how to address that: featuring, bathtub bonding time with Linn, Even's office antics, being no-one's priority, a stress run and an impulse decision, a challenge, and a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is starting to come together properly--i've got a plan for where it's headed next, and despite my best intentions, pals, it's gonna be lots of pining and misunderstandings. 
> 
> thank you all for your kind comments on this verse. they mean the world. <3
> 
> cw for this chapter: mentions of anxiety/poor self-image; mentions of suicide (in context of charity/fundraising)  
> please do let me know if there are any things you want me to tag that haven't been already. 
> 
> otherwise...i hope you enjoy. <3

 

‘Gratulerer med dagen, Magnus!’

Magnus is sitting in front of his impressively large birthday cake (which Noora and Vilde provided), crowded in by a circle of people towering over him, singing out the birthday song as loudly as they can. As the song finishes, Isak looks around the assembly: Jonas and Eva each have an arm around the other’s waist, bellowing along with Vilde and Noora, who are holding hands and exchanging shy glances at each other. Eskild is holding onto Linn as he sings loudly, too, shaking her in encouragement a little every time she goes quiet. Chris and Kasper are pouring another line of shots, and Julian Dahl has brought his preppy soccer friends, most of whom Isak doesn’t know, but at least one of whom has been giving Isak looks ever since he entered the house.

For a brief second Isak considered giving a look back, but the fear returns, and he doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want anyone to get that close. Or realise they’d be the first to do so.

More than anything, Isak misses Mahdi, still in Stockholm, and he misses Sana, who’s loved up in Istanbul with Yousef. They were his go-to safe places at parties like this—Mahdi would hand over a spliff wordlessly when Isak got jittery, and Sana would spot him a mile away if he was suddenly left on his own (usually while Jonas hooked up with Eva and Magnus followed someone around the house like a lovesick puppy looking for treats).

But Isak can’t begrudge Mahdi for moving to the city he loved the most—he studied biomedical engineering there and stayed when he got headhunted for a job at the firm he’d hoped to end up working at anyway. And Isak certainly can’t begrudge Sana’s happiness, seeing as she’s invited him to the wedding in May, which is a great excuse for a holiday in Turkey. Not that he’d admit to Sana that that reason was secondary to seeing his best bud again.

The birthday song comes to a close, and Chris passes around the tray of shots she’d readied in the meantime. The crowd in Magnus’s living room isn’t huge, but it’s enough for Isak to feel uncomfortable, so he’s glad for the readily accessible alcohol. And he’s glad, too, to see Magnus so content for the first time in a long time.

Magnus had had it rough since Nissen: he’d started in UiO, studying history, but dropped out when he realised he didn’t want to pursue academia: he started working at Joe & the Juice for a while, hating every minute, until he went back to UiO to study human resources. Now he’s a HR administrator in UiO, and loves the human contact, the chance to match candidates to the right jobs, the sociability of the role. He’d only started the job over the summer, but he was already being pushed for promotion by his line manager.

Magnus is happy. Probably for the first time since they left Nissen. And as Vilde cuts through the ‘24’ on Magnus’s cake, Isak realises it’s been over six years since they left. _Six years_.

Six years, and what has he done?

He looks around the room again and sees everyone else in conversation with someone, leaning in with a smile, leaning back with a laugh. Magnus is clapping his hands, then giving Noora a kiss on the cheek. Jonas is giving Vilde a high-five for the cake. Eva is encouraging Linn to go out dancing afterwards. Eskild is chatting up the soccer player that had been giving eyes at Isak. Julian is doing a sneaky shot with Kasper, while Chris passes the tray around to the rest of the soccer players. The feeling of isolation that darts down through Isak’s stomach is swift, and thorough. And it’s cold. 

His grip on his Tuborg gets tighter. And he realises it’s the same beer he’s been drinking for six years. He overhears Chris say the same chat-up line she’d tried on him six years ago. He sees Vilde give Eva the same compliment about her hair she’s been saying since she cut it short. All at once he feels caged in, trapped by the movement of time and the inertia of his progress in it.

_Six years, and what have I done?_

He doesn’t want to answer that. So he walks over to Chris and takes two glasses, downing each, one after the other.

‘Oiii, Isak, you want to go hard tonight, I guess?’ she asks, delighted and surprised in equal measure.

He shrugs. ‘Magnus only turns 24 once.’

‘There’s my man!’ Chris shouts, clapping Isak on the back, before taking off her pink holographic snapback, and placing it backwards on his head.

‘Oh damn,’ she sighs, ‘this takes me back.’

Isak looks at her, unimpressed. ‘When did I ever wear this hat?’

‘Not _this_ hat,’ she says, ‘but you used to dress so preppy in Nissen. Don’t you remember? All those Adidas jackets and backwards snapbacks. You dress like an accountant now.’

Isak rolls his eyes. ‘I do not, you just see me when I get out of work.’

‘I know, but look at how cute you are in this,’ she says, ignoring his remark, and holding out her phone with the camera in selfie mode.

Isak looks at himself on the screen, raising an eyebrow at the ridiculousness of the hat on his head and the fact that it _does_ remind him of what he used to look like. _At least one thing’s changed since we left Nissen._

Without warning, Chris presses the button and takes a picture. ‘Hey!’ Isak protests, ‘I did not consent to that!’

Chris laughs, and then, seeing Isak’s outraged face, her smile falters. ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘I—I’m sorry. I’ll delete it if you want.’

She hands him the phone sheepishly and shifts from foot to foot.

Isak’s heart lifts a bit at how genuine she is, and he shifts tactics. ‘Just—let me have a look at it first, ok?’

She nods, and puts the phone in his hands. Once he unlocks it— _really, Chris, no security key?—_ he opens the pictures folder and sees the latest one: a close-up of his face, where his left eyebrow is raised high on his forehead, and the viewer gets a very good look up his left nostril.

It’s pretty hideous, by all accounts. But Isak knows Chris will feel worse if he demands she delete it. And it doesn’t offend him that much.

‘Nah, it’s cool, Chris,’ he says, handing her phone back. ‘Keep it as a memento. Because it’s the last time you’ll see me with this,’ he continues, taking off her snapback too, and placing it back on her head.

She smiles again, and Isak knows it was the right call: Chris’s smile is so infectious and lovely.

‘You want another shot?’ she offers, picking the tray back up from the table.

Isak considers the small glass of tequila. Then he considers two.

\--

The fact that he is in the bathroom by midnight is not a surprise to him, or to anyone, considering how much he drank.

But Isak never cries. Never. Especially not outside the confines of his studio flat.

And yet. Here he is, sitting in Magnus’s bathtub, crying unreservedly into his hands, but as quietly as he can manage. It is still Magnus’s birthday after all – the last thing anyone wants is to deal with the sad drunk friend.

More than ever Isak wishes Mahdi was here. Not just for the weed, though that would definitely help, but for the quiet company. Mahdi tends not to ask questions when anyone’s upset, just offers them something to drink or eat or smoke, and sits in amicable silence unless they choose to talk about it. Countless times while Isak was coming out, Mahdi would just come around to the kollektiv with a pizza, or a six-pack of Tuborg, and watch some Netflix in silence with Isak, and give him a long hug that spoke volumes before he walked home. Isak never knew how Mahdi understood that he needed just that kind of company, which he’d only ever gotten from Jonas. But it was nice to know that Jonas sometimes got a break from taking care of him, too.

But Isak’s in the bathtub alone, and Mahdi is in Stockholm. Jonas is downstairs, grinding up on Eva, while Vilde and Noora have already gone home to hook up, and Eskild is trying to get soccer boy to do the same. Chris, Magnus, Kasper and Julian are dancing to the playlist that Chris has curated for this specific purpose, while the soccer bros are spread out from the makeshift dance floor in Magnus’s living room, to the kitchen, to the back garden where they’re sharing cigarettes and beer.

Isak isn’t even on the outside looking in anymore. He’s just not there.

Suddenly there’s a knock on the door, and Isak startles, reaching immediately for the toilet tissue to wipe his face.

‘Occupied!’ he shouts, and hears himself slur the words. ‘Try the one downstairs.’

‘It’s me,’ he hears from the other side. ‘It’s Linn. Can… can I come in?’

Isak hesitates. He’d pretty much forgotten Linn was at the party; truth be told he’d kind of assumed she’d gone home after they cut the cake. But here she is, asking to join him. He knows she’s not going to press him for details, but he’s not sure she won’t go get Eskild as soon as she realises he’s upset.

The thing is, Isak knows he wants the company—why else would he be missing Mahdi so fiercely?—but he wants company that just lets him be.

‘I’m on my own,’ she says, quietly. And Isak realises that’s not just to appease him, but to hint that she might need some company, too.

He climbs out of the bath, and glances at himself in the mirror. His eyes are red-rimmed, his nose is running, and there’s no way she’s not going to know immediately that he was crying.

‘Coming,’ he says, as he turns on the tap and washes his face a bit with cold water. It might not cover anything up, but it does feel nice.

He dries his face on the towel next to the sink, then goes to the door, draws back the latch, and opens it.

Linn is standing on the other side, fiddling with both sleeves, and looking up at Isak a little uncertainly.

‘Hey,’ she says.

Isak tries to give her a small smile. ‘Hey.’ He stands back, lets her in to the bathroom, and as she settles into the bathtub, he asks, ‘Mind if I lock this again? I don’t want to make you feel like—’

‘No, yeah,’ she says, ‘lock it. It’s a good for the anxiety.’

Isak nods, and pulls the latch back, then walks over the tub and sits in next to Linn.

They just sit quietly for a while, staring at the mirror, sink, and cabinet in front of them, the peach-coloured walls, the off-white tiles, the toothbrushes in a glass. The noise from downstairs is palpable more than audible—there’s a low hum from the music speakers that seems to reverberate through the walls. And Isak feels a little calmer just with Linn’s silence.

‘I don’t know how to reach out,’ she says suddenly. ‘Like, I don’t know how to reach out to friends. Because I never know what I want from people when I’m down. Mostly because … when I’m down I don’t want _anything_ , that’s the _point_. So. Yeah. I’m … here. If … you know.’

Isak might cry again just from that. Though Linn struggles more than most of the people he knows, here she is, sitting next to him, because she somehow knew he could do with the company. And she’s not trying to get anything from him. She just wants to let him be.

He screws his eyes shut and turns his head away from her. Then nods his head in acknowledgement. He knows if he tries to speak the dam will burst.

‘Ok,’ she says, almost to herself, and leans her head back against the cold tile, closing her eyes.

They sit in silence again. Isak has quelled the instinct to tear up, and is considering the benefits of telling Linn what’s wrong. It’s not like she’s going to tell anyone else. And he thinks she’ll probably even keep it from Eskild if he expressly asks her to. Besides, it might be an objectively healthy thing to do. Just talk about it. Just acknowledge it’s there.

‘I don’t know if you feel the same,’ she says, interrupting his thoughts, ‘but I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.’

Isak turns back to face her, trying to gauge her feelings from that. She’s got the same stony expression that she usually does. But something in her voice indicates a deeper hurt.

‘I’m twenty-seven years old. I’m single. I live with the most extroverted person on the planet who has sex at least twice a week, all with complete strangers, whereas I can’t even approach someone in a café. I’ve never gone to uni. I don’t have a job. I’m living off my parents’ trust fund and it’s such a disgusting privilege that I’m wasting because I have no purpose. I go to two different counsellors, and I take medication that just numbs me to everything. I routinely keep everyone at a distance from me and it makes me miserable, and I don’t know how to fix any of it. It’s all too fucking much. It’s just too much.’

Linn doesn’t raise or waver her voice once; she announces it, like it had been building up inside her, formed into concise summative statements, and she just needed someone to hear it.

But her words are heavy between the cold tiles. And Isak has no response. Nothing can come close to reassuring someone when there’s that much to unpack, to assess, to try and heal. “It gets better” just feels inadequate.

Before he can think better of it, he opens his mouth.

‘Hey…I don’t know what I’m doing with my life, either. I--I dropped out of med school after four years because I realised I wasn’t going to “save lives” like I thought. Being a doctor mostly means different kinds of paperwork. I told myself it was because I was overworked, underwhelmed, and barely breaking even on my rent. But … ugh, fuck it, none of that is even the _real reason_. I realised I was just going to be battling my own mediocrity for the rest of my life. And I was right. Look at me now. I’m doing a job that any literate child could do, and I’m crying at my friend’s birthday party. Because I see what my life is, and what I want it to be, and the two things seem fucking _universes_ apart. I just… I haven’t a clue what the fuck I’m doing.’

As breathless as he is from admitting all of that, there’s one more thing Isak needs to get off his chest. And Linn hasn’t reacted badly—has barely reacted—to his announcements thus far, so he takes a breath and lets everything go:

‘Not only that, but … I live alone. And I live alone because I can’t bear having to face the comparisons with other people. I mean, fuck, I’ve never even _slept_ with anyone, never trusted anyone to come anywhere near me, and the longer that goes on, the more inexperienced and absurd I look. I just feel fucking powerless.’

He closes his eyes, and lets the tears fall now, because there’s no point in even trying to stop them. He waits for the onslaught of pity, for the advice, for the “fix-it.”

But Linn is silent. He’d almost forget she was there if he didn’t hear her slow breaths in and out. She lets him cry undisturbed and he can’t contain how grateful he is. The only sign that she’s acknowledging it is the soft hand resting on his shoulder, not moving, just resting there in a small mark of solidarity.

He wants to say “sorry” immediately for that outburst, but he also doesn’t want to apologise for saying what he feels. It just _is_. And the fact that Linn seems to recognise that too is overwhelming in the best way.

They continue to sit there until Isak stops crying. Linn wordlessly hands him some toilet tissue as he calms, and then they both lean back against the tiled wall.

‘Y’know,’ she says, ‘when I envisaged what life at twenty-seven would look like, it wasn’t comforting a sad virgin in a bathtub.’

And somehow, that was the perfect thing for Linn to say: Isak can’t help the loud laugh that escapes him, and he lets it grow into a giddy, gleeful fit of laughter that even Linn joins in for a bit. Isak realises, as she lets out a snort, that he’s never seen her laugh before. And she looks so bright when she’s laughing, so carefree and childlike, that he wonders if in another universe where he’s not exclusively into men, if he might not fall a little bit in love with it.

‘You feel any better?’ she asks. It’s not hopeful. It’s a kind of searching question, genuinely wanting to assess if talking helped or not.

Isak considers it, and realises he does feel slightly better. Though blurting out his anxieties did nothing to fix them, it did make him feel less alone. At least for now. And that, he’ll take.

‘Yeah. Y’know. A bit,’ he says.

Linn studies him for a moment, then nods.

‘I’m gonna go home,’ she says, standing out of the tub. ‘You want to stay here?’

Again, she asks him with no leading intent. Isak wonders how she does that.

‘Nah,’ he says, pulling himself out of the tub after her. ‘I’m going home, too.’

They leave the bathroom together, as Linn gives Isak a soft pat on the back, wordlessly thanking him and comforting him at the same time.

Isak insists on walking her back to the kollektiv before he walks home. It feels like the least he can do.

\--

A squeak.

It’s high-pitched, _grating_ , and pierces through any attempt to block it out.

It ends.

Then, another squeak.

It’s somehow louder this time. More irritating. More intolerable.

Then a prolonged, shrill, discordant squeak that stretches out and out – and then stops.

And then starts again.

Louder than before.

Until it’s suddenly replaced with a clicking sound, amplified in the windowless microfiche room.

The clicking is irksome, too, but at least it’s not as loud as the squeaking was. And it might stop soon.

 

Isak knows he’s being tested.

But he’s close to letting Even win. Because if he does it again—

Another grating squeak.

Isak’s _had it_.

‘Fucking CHRIST!’ he shouts, jumping back from the microfiche machine, grabbing the jacket from the back of his chair and storming to the door, hellbent on finding a trash bag from the utility closet and suffocating Even with it. (Or, at least, that’s what he’d say if Even asked.)

Even, meanwhile, is bent over in his chair with laughter—the same fucking chair that is the source of the fucking squeak that Even _knows_ drives Isak up the wall—and his face is getting redder with the lack of oxygen in his lungs because, oh yeah, he’s still laughing _heartily_ at Isak’s fury.

But just as Isak pulls the door open with an angry jerk, Even steps out of the chair, wiping away some errant tears of hilarity, and chokes out, ‘No, Isak, sorry, please—I just—it was too good, you’re so _easy_ to annoy—’

‘I don’t care Even! I will not tolerate this!’

Isak’s hand is on the doorknob, and he’s aware that he has no reason to stay in this room, seeing as it’s already pretty much their lunch break, but for some reason he’s still standing there, letting Even try and talk him down. But he’s still furious, obviously. Just—he’s in no particular rush.

‘I’m sorry, Isak,’ Even says, smiling from ear to ear in a way that contradicts every word he says, ‘but honestly I was typing out another pointless policy briefing and I needed to do _something_ to keep myself awake. Plus, you’re so funny when you’re pissed off.’

‘Well, laugh it up, asshole,’ Isak retorts, turning to storm out, when Even reaches out and wraps a hand around his arm.

‘No, honestly, I’m sorry. I’ll get some oil for it tonight and you won’t have to put up with it anymore.’

Isak however hasn’t heard a word because he’s mostly focusing on the fact that Even’s touching him. And it’s minor and negligible and probably unconsciously done, but the fact is that Even is _touching him_ , and he can’t help how deeply he likes it. How he really wants Even to touch him more. How warm Even’s hand is. How big it is. How good it would feel if he used it to—

‘Isak, I didn’t realise how much it was bothering you, I really am sorry.’

Isak glances up at Even, and sees that he’s now a little concerned as to why Isak fell silent: Even thinks Isak’s legitimately angry with him. And he _was_ annoyed, but mostly wanted to play out the game, but it’s too weird now to explain why he wasn’t replying, so:

‘It’s ok,’ Isak says, letting go of the door, ‘I’m not even that angry at your fucking chair—though don’t get me wrong, it is annoying as hell.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Even asks, moving his hand away from Isak’s arm, and Isak hates how much his deeper feelings protest the act.

And Isak realises he really is bothered about something, and it has nothing to do with Even. His weekend is still weighing heavily on his mind, his conversation with Linn still very present in his thoughts. And another five and a half hours of interminable data entry in a dim room has done no favours for his sense of self. Made worse by Even being so content, so fucking _chill_ about everything.

‘It’s – a long story,’ Isak waves off.

‘Ah, another one that requires a drink?’

Isak has already started walking back to the table, perching on top of it as Even follows suit. The question is asked lightly, but Isak’s heart still wonders if it means what he _wants_ it to mean. If Even’s suggestiveness is going anywhere or if it’s just how he interacts with people.

‘No,’ Isak replies, ‘just—a long story.’

Isak expects Even to push for an answer, but instead Even nods and takes out his snus tin, taking a portion and tucking it behind his front lip as he always does. The sound his lips make when he slides it into place with his tongue is near enough to a kiss, and Isak squirms a bit.

‘Did you go to Bakka?’ Even asks after a few moments of silence.

Isak lets out a mocking laugh. ‘As _if_.’ But of course it makes sense that Even would have gone to Elvebakken. Everything about him screams artsy media type.

Even raises his eyebrows. ‘Something wrong with Bakka?’

‘It just makes sense.’

‘What does?’

‘That you went there.’

‘You know that it’s one of the hardest schools to get into in the first place, right?’ Even asks, in equal parts amused and taken aback, ‘That the entrance exams are actually the toughest in Oslo to qualify?’

Isak rolls his eyes. ‘I wasn’t commenting on the intellectual capacity of Bakka graduates—more the social profile. Which you fit to the last detail, by the way.’

‘Y’know, this is the second time you’ve remarked on that, Isak. Is there something about my demeanour that offends _milady_?’ Even asks, not even trying to suppress his grin.

‘The _point_ is,’ Isak goes on, ignoring Even’s bait altogether, ‘I went to Nissen.’

‘Ah,’ Even says, nodding, and smiling smugly to himself.

‘What does that mean?’ Isak asks, indignant. Even’s reaction had been so self-satisfied, like Isak’s answer explained everything about him. And yeah, Isak realises he’d just done the same thing to Even moments before, but this is different. He’s allowed to make fun of Even, but that’s a one-way street.

‘Just explains some things,’ Even says, nonchalant. ‘You went to the west-Oslo old-money school that the royals go to. Kind of accounts for, y’know.’ Even then gestures at Isak, waving his hand first up, and then down, indicating all of him.

Isak decides to give Even a taste of his own medicine. ‘Are you trying to ask me if I’m a prince, Even?’

And he gets the best reaction he could have hoped for. Even bursts out laughing, his eyes squeezed shut and his cheeks dimpling. And Isak realises this is Even at his most attractive, his most beautiful. Even is beautiful. When he laughs, he’s stunning.

Oblivious to Isak’s internal monologue, Even calms down, and says, ‘No, I already knew that you were a prince.’

Isak blushes. It’s not fair for Even to flirt so openly without shame. Like it’s perfectly normal to say such a thing.

‘Are you _blushing_?’ Even asks. He sounds incredulous, like the fact that Isak is beetroot red is a revelation.

‘No,’ Isak insists, ducking his head away.

‘I thought I saw you blush the first day, but I figured it was probably embarrassment with the whole no-shirt situation.’ Even smiles again, delighted that he gets such a reaction from Isak. But he continues, ‘Which I do miss, by the way.’

Isak sighs. ‘When are you going to stop bringing that up.’ He doesn’t ask it like a question, because he already knows the answer.

‘When it stops being a delight to annoy you,’ Even replies happily.

Isak knows they’re skirting the edge of overt flirtation, and he can’t risk it. He has to regain some control.

‘I feel like you’ve really nailed that particular skill,’ he says, ‘Any others?’

Even hums, and takes a moment to think. For once, he seems like he’s sincere about it. ‘Yeah, I guess—I studied film in London, so I have some basic writing and directing skills.’

‘Wait,’ Isak interrupts. ‘You studied film in London? How has this never come up?’

Even shrugs. ‘We’re transcribing four decades worth of shit from the Department of Education, when was I going to naturally introduce the fact that—’

‘Yeah, yeah, jeez, ok,’ Isak says, ‘tell me the thing now.’

Even looks at Isak with a sideways glance, like he’s figuring something out slowly, and it brings him some measure of amusement. Then he explains.

He spent two years studying at the London Film Academy and a third trying to get jobs in the industry there, but with no luck. The opportunities were split between unpaid internships and highly competitive roles that only came around once in a blue moon. After months of waiting tables and hoping, he decided to give up on that dream, and move back to Oslo. London was just too expensive and too lonely. But, arriving back in Oslo was harder than he’d expected: most of his Bakka friends had moved away.

‘Adam moved to Marrakech with his girlfriend back when we finished highschool,’ Even says, listing the names out on each finger of his left hand, ‘Elias is off backpacking around south-east Asia for a year. Mikael … well, Mikael was with me in LFA but … he stayed behind for his boyfriend Tom.’

Something about the way Even spoke about Mikael raised a flag in Isak’s mind: his tone had shifted ever so slightly, closer to feigned detachment than sentimentality.

‘Mutta, thank god, was still here, and when I told him I was coming back he immediately gave notice at his flat and went looking for a place where the two of us could live together. He’s… he’s my best friend in Oslo.’

Isak smiles at that. ‘Sounds like a gem.’

‘He is,’ Even says, ‘but also, in fairness, his last flat was a dump, so I was a good excuse. When Yousef and Elias both left, he had to get replacements immediately or he was gonna be stuck paying three times his normal rent.’

‘Where is Yousef?’ Isak asks.

‘Oh, yeah, he’s in Turkey. He moved there with his fiancé Sana—they’re actually getting married there in May.’

No way. No _fucking_ way.

‘You are _kidding_ me!’ Isak shouts.

‘Kidding you about what?’ Even asks. But Isak isn’t paying attention to his confusion. Because he just said ‘Yousef’ and ‘Sana’ and ‘wedding’ in the same sentence, and there’s no way that’s a coincidence.

‘You know Sana? You know about the wedding?’ Isak is on his feet now, gesticulating around at everything, trying to understand that Even knows his best bud, but somehow he never knew Isak.

‘Wait, _you_ know Sana?’ Even asks, mirroring Isak’s movements, and standing too.

‘Of course I know Sana! We were best buds at Nissen!’ Isak retorts, somehow infuriated at Even that he was just one degree of separation away from him for a _long_ time.

‘Holy shit,’ Even says, ‘are you—wait, are you invited to the wedding too?’ The way Even asks it is undeniably optimistic. And Isak doesn’t miss how his face lights up in a hopeful smile.

‘I got the invitation just before Christmas,’ he says, rather than giving a straight answer. Technically he hadn’t RSVP’d yet. He couldn’t decide whether or not he wanted to bring a plus one. It was something Eskild had been hounding him about every time they hung out, so he of course was increasingly keen to avoid the thought.

Even’s jaw drops as his smile widens. ‘This is fantastic!’ he yells. ‘I did too! I just haven’t RSVP’d yet, because I don’t know if I wanna bring someone with me or not, but I told Yousef I’d be there for sure. And now you’re gonna be there too!’

Even looks like he just won the lottery, and Isak finds himself oddly uncomfortably around such clear joy. It takes him a moment to realise that he’s confused about why Even is so pleased that Isak is going to the wedding—his instinctual reaction to Even’s desire to be around him is one of disbelief.

And as much as the feeling is familiar, he can’t stop the wave of frustration that he’s already invested in Even’s opinion of him. That he thinks so lowly of himself that he feeds off any sign of external validation while also rejecting it. It doesn’t make sense that Even wants to be around him, in whatever capacity that is. Even can have anyone. Why would he choose a failure?

‘I can’t believe it,’ Even continues, grabbing Isak’s shoulders in his big, warm hands, and Isak is weak. ‘This is the _best_ news.’

Isak wants to believe him. He really does. But for some reason this news feels like the portents of something bad, something inevitable. And he’s suddenly afraid of what it means.

‘We are gonna have such a blast in Istanbul, Isak,’ Even goes on, closer now, his breath touching Isak’s cheek, ‘I can feel it.’

All Isak feels is that twist in his gut that says, _watch out_.

‘Careful what you wish for,’ Isak says, before he can stop himself. The way Even’s face falls makes him immediately regret it. But not enough to take it back.

 

\--

 

** Jonas **

hey man, you got plans tonight?

hey issy

yeah at eva’s cabin

sorry

you ok?

yeah all good

 

\--

 

** Eskild **

hey guru, you have plans tonight?

_Seen 18:53_

 

\--

****

** Linn **

hey linn

fun light and pizza tonight?

sry. not up for it

that’s chill

I’m here for you if. You know.

you too, baby gay

don’t even

<3

<3

 

\--

 

** Magnus **

mags, boys night, mine

by boys night i mean u & me

jonas is at the cabin

shit man you know I love boys night

esp at yours

but I have a tinder date

we’re going to holmenkollen

!!

ugh i hope you fall

me too tbh

fucking hate skiing

well then  
i hope your date at least   
tends to your wounds

honestly that’s my only   
seduction plan right now

 

\--

****

** Noora **

hei noora

i’m at a loose end tonight

you and vilde wanna come over?

i might even let you put on a rom com

not pretty woman though

pls, anything but that

hei isak

ty for the invite

would love to but

vilde and I are having some problems atm

gonna try and work it out tonight

oh i’m sorry

yeah i hope you work it out

you two are great together

I always forget what a softie you are

and if you tell anyone i’ll eat all your fishcakes

<3

<3

 

\--

 

Isak knows that it’s not about him. It’s nothing to do with him, the fact that all his friends are busy. It isn’t his fault that no one is free to hang out.

But he needs someone to just listen for a bit. Like Linn did, the night of Magnus’ party. Just listen while he talks, and then to _not talk_ about it, and then maybe drink something or smoke something or just go to sleep. He wants the company, no questions asked.

And it stings that he’s not anyone’s priority.

As much as it isn’t his fault, and it isn’t about him, and there is nothing he can do—it feels like a validation of all his worst fears. Like as soon as he moved into the studio flat he was manifesting the physical symbol of how he isolates himself.

He wants to explain some of his anxiety about being in that basement room for forty hours a week with a man he was drawn to immediately, and to whom he is quickly becoming more and more attached. Most days it feels like the universe and its logic are laughing at him. Both Even and he had contractually forbidden themselves from getting involved with anyone, and yet they share stories like they are old friends, bicker like they are siblings, and smile at each other like they are lovers.

Yet Even sometimes is suddenly closed off to Isak. Just the day after they found out they both know Sana, Isak cracked a joke about Grindr—the fact that in Oslo it’s far too easy to come across people you know in real life—and asked if Mikael had ever found that in London.

For some reason, Even stilled, fell silent. Because they were both on the microfiche machines, Isak couldn’t see his face, and when he craned his neck to look over the monitor, he didn’t see Even’s hair, which meant he must have hung his head. All at once Isak got the sense he crossed a line he didn’t know was there. He opened his mouth to apologise, when Even interrupted.

‘London’s over ten times the size of Oslo. You’re pretty much guaranteed anonymity. And … besides, Mikael’s dating Tom, so. No need for Grindr.’

His tone was uncharacteristically formal. And the way he spoke was final, a tacit announcement that the subject was closed.

Isak’s thoughts dwell once more on Even’s shift in tone whenever Mikael is brought up. He wants to know more, to know what he’s not saying, but at the same time, when his thoughts drift to Even, his heart starts pumping out equal amounts of adrenaline and dread. _What if Even’s actually homophobic? What if I’m misreading the flirting and the banter? What if he’s happy I’m going to the wedding only because he thinks I’m a straight man who he can be friends with? What if—_

He knows he’s spiralling again. He just wants it to stop, the endless anxious spinning from one insecurity to the next. But as he picks his phone up to contact someone, he remembers he doesn’t have anyone he can call.

He wonders for a minute if—but no. That would be silly. That would be _ridiculous_. He can’t entertain the thought.

But the thought stick. It is stubborn. It clings. It claws its way to the forefront of his mind.

_What if—what if I talk to Even?_

_No_.

He grabs hold of that thought by the roots, pulls it out, shakes it off, and ousts it from his rationale.

Most of what he wants to vent about is _about Even_. He’s the last person Isak needs to talk to.

And yet he knows he wants it. He wants to see him. It doesn’t matter that it’s Saturday night, the end of their second week working together, and it’s been less than twenty four hours since he saw him last—he wants to be around him. It’s undeniable. It’s arousing. It’s _frustrating_.

Even is attractive, ok, and that has been well-established in Isak’s mind since he first laid eyes on him, but he is _really_ attractive, in a way that isn’t just about his long legs and his bright smile and his absurdly nice hands, and arms, and shoulders, and lips— yeah ok, obviously, it is also about all of that, but it’s also about his intelligence, his kindness, his considerate patience. His laugh. His attempts to cheer Isak up when they’re both bored out of their minds.

Isak weighs his phone in his hand. They exchanged numbers earlier that week when Even suggested it might be useful if either one forgot the room key or their ID card. So, not really for personal use, but something tells Isak that Even wouldn’t mind.

He opens Even’s contact card and looks at the picture there—a ridiculous selfie Even took from a terrible down-angle, so he seems to have about six chins. It makes Isak smile.

But he realises if Even answered, he’d have to explain why he’s calling. That none of his friends are around. That he’s alone. That he’s lonely. That he’s resorted to contacting someone he’s only known for two weeks for comfort. And the shame overwhelms him, so he puts the phone back down under his pillow.

The frustration returns. He desperately needs something to do. And he can’t jerk off _again_.

For want of a better idea, Isak rolls off the bed, and opens his wardrobe doors. He kicks aside the pile of clothes on the floor of his closet, searching blindly for his old and battered running shoes.

He hasn’t gone for a run in a good while, but he figures that a quick 5k shouldn’t be too demanding. And at least it’ll kill some time.

He changes into his old workout gear—finds it a little more snug than last time—and pulls on his shoes, where both ankle-grooves have been worn back to the plastic, and there’s a prominent hole over his right big toe. He sighs, and goes searching for his headphones and headband.

Soon, he’s stretching, listening to his Pride Classics playlist, and then he’s running out the door into Sofienberg park. The first fifteen minutes are the hardest, as he’s warming up and out of breath all too soon (a shocking marker of how unfit he is). But the feeling of being in his body, of being sweaty and achey and alive, is welcome. Especially as he’s able to block out everything else bothering him for just a bit, while he blasts Chaka Khan and matches his pace to the beat of _I’m Every Woman_. (Gender is over, and all that.)

As he reaches the last kilometre of his route, he passes a poster on one of the streetlamps that advertises the Oslo marathon.

It runs in September, and the full marathon is a double-circuit of a track all along the Oslofjord. _Flat_ , Isak remembers. It’s almost entirely flat, which is much less demanding for running, and it’s in the autumn, so it’s usually around fifteen-degrees-Celsius weather.

Before he knows it, he’s torn off one of the slips with the website link on it, and stuck it in his back pocket. _That is a pretty solid way to kill time._ Not least because it means he has motivation to get fit again.

And if it tones his legs and butt at the same time, well that wouldn’t suck.

\--

‘You’re going to run the marathon?’ Even asks, incredulous. ‘You know that’s like forty-two kilometres?’

They’re back at work, but both squeezed into the utility-closet-cum-kitchen, making their fourth cup of coffee of the day.

‘Yeah,’ Isak shrugs, trying not to fall over the tangle of brushes and mops behind him. ‘I used to be a competitive runner when I was younger, but I fell out of the habit when I finished school.’

‘You used to be a competitive runner?’ Even asks, somehow more incredulous than before.

‘Yeah I’ve run a few 10ks, and then I ran the half-marathon in my last year at Nissen.’

‘I’m sorry. You were doing your final exams and training for a half marathon at the same time? Did you _sleep_ ever?’

‘No actually,’ Isak laughs darkly. ‘I had really bad insomnia. But…that was around the time my dad left, and I moved out, so. Probably had more to do with me sleeping in my friend’s basement than with managing my workload.’

Even’s breath catches, and Isak realises he hasn’t shared that information before, and he’s dropped it far too casually into conversation. By the way Even is evidently trying to search for an appropriate response, Isak knows he’s taken him way off guard.

‘It’s cool,’ Isak says, hoping to dissolve the tension quickly, ‘the point is I’m back on my bullshit, I just need to decide what charity I’m going to pledge to.’

Immediately Even’s face lightens up. ‘You’re raising for charity?’

‘Yeah,’ Isak replies, ‘it’d be a waste not to. Whenever I ran, I always raised for a good cause. Otherwise I’m just doing it for my own ego.’

The way Even’s expression rests into something tender, something fond, is too much for Isak. He’s confused by his reactions as much as he is uncomfortable around them—but he is desperate for the looks Even gives him, the looks that are like this. Focused, warm, piercing.

But Isak is also all too aware of the fact that he’s trying to come across to Even as some kind of selfless do-gooder, and he doesn’t know if it’s because of the attraction, or because he’s a little worried that Even will only like him as long as he doesn’t know he’s gay—so the more brownie points he gets now, the better.

‘What charities are you thinking of?’ Even asks at last, like he’s actually trying to ask something else.

‘I don’t know,’ Isak answers truthfully. ‘I’ve raised for Cancer Research before, the World Wide Fund for Nature, Leve, UNICEF—’

‘You ran for Leve?’ Even interrupts.

‘Yeah?’ Isak says. Out of that list, he’s not sure why Even fixated on the charity that supports survivors and victims of suicide. People usually clap him on the back for all the other ones, but Leve tends to make them uncomfortable.

He used to think Norway was progressive enough not to still hold suicide to stigma, but the discomfited throat-clearing and squirming most people tended to fall back on when Leve came up was enough to clue Isak into the fact that suicide was still a sensitive topic. It had motivated him to really campaign for as much fundraising as possible. And he was still proud of exceeding his target of 10,000NOK—the number he had for that half-marathon was pasted up on his bedroom wall.

‘That’s … that’s really good of you, Isak,’ Even says, his voice much quieter than it was before. ‘Really good.’

Isak suddenly realises that Even’s not one of the people that fidget at the mention of suicide. He’s acting much more like someone that understands its effects, someone who appreciates the need for more support, more awareness. And Isak is itching to ask him who it was that made Even understand.

Instead, Isak decides to deflect, again. ‘Well, I mean, that’s true. I’m practically a saint.’

Even looks at him with amusement and exasperation, as if to say, _I was trying to be kind, and you went ahead and undermined me, you ass._ He’s just finished pouring hot water into their cups, mixing with the instant coffee granules and sugar at the bottom. It tastes like shit, but at least it’s free, Isak reminds himself.

The silence that suddenly falls is a little tense. The room is far too small for them to both stand in it with nothing to say. And Isak is all too aware of how close Even is, as he stirs the coffee in both cups, before handing Isak one of them.

‘And anyway,’ Isak continues, nervous to fill the silence, ‘what would you know about running? You look like the most you’ve ever ran is to catch a tram.’

‘The insolence!’ Even says, faking offense, ‘I was being _nice_ , and you repay me with this _disrespect_ —’

Isak doesn’t register what he says before it comes tumbling out of his mouth, unfiltered, bold, and unmistakeable.

‘Prove it, then.’

Even raises his eyebrows. ‘Prove it? How?’

‘Run the marathon, too,’ Isak hears himself say. _What am I doing. What am I DOING._

But he knows, deep down, he knows what he’s doing. He wants any excuse to see Even more. And if Even agrees to train for the Oslo marathon, too, then it’s only logical that they would train together, bounce off each other for motivation and progress. And deep down Isak knows intuitively that Even is as competitive as he is. That he’ll rise to the challenge. That he’ll be helpless to take the bait.

‘Alright,’ Even agrees, as if it’s really that simple a decision for him. Isak realises that it probably is, that Even’s just like that. ‘But only if we train together. So I can prove your assumptions about me are wrong, once and for all.’

‘Deal,’ Isak says, extending his hand for them to shake on it. Make it official.

As Even mirrors him, and shakes his hand gently—his ring and little fingers wrapped around Isak’s knuckles, while his index finger lingers on Isak’s wrist, _honestly why are his hands so big_ —he smiles, and nods, and Isak briefly wonders whether or not the pulse racing in his fingertips is his own.

\--

The fact that their first training session is hideous is unavoidable. They’re both out of practice. Even gets a stitch within the first ten minutes, while Isak can’t keep a steady pace because it’s the first time he’s running without music. They barely scrape 5k and even then it takes them both nearly 45 minutes.

But the greatest struggle is the fact that Even is wearing shorts. Lycra shorts. That hide _nothing_. Not the fact that he’s got a really nice round butt, which Isak never expected, like a _really_ nice round butt, nor the fact that he’s got a sizeable package, which Isak forces himself to _not_ glance at. Though, in their warm up stretches, Even’s butterfly pose is damningly revealing.

But more than that, Even catches him looking—more than once. Isak had thought he was super stealth, but it seemed like whenever he gave in to the temptation to linger his gaze as he trailed behind or tried to catch up with Even’s long legs, Even knew by instinct that Isak’s eyes were on him, and turned to find them every single time.

They never acknowledge it with words, as Isak consistently darts his glance away and coughs to try and cover his embarrassment, but it occasionally settles between them, this unspoken tension.

What Isak realises as they go through their cool down stretches, is that, increasingly, he feels Even’s eyes on him. As he settles into a forward lunge to loosen out his right hip, he sneaks a look sideways at where Even is doing an oblique stretch, and catches Even staring down at his ass.

It’s not a quick glance, or an inquisitive look at the stretch and where it works, it’s an outright probing stare. And Isak feels a shiver run through him. Contrary to cooling down, his skin feels _hot_ all of a sudden. His sweat comes faster. His heart beats harder.

Even finishes his oblique stretch and straightens up again, then raises his right knee and clasps it in both hands as he rotates his ankle. But his eyes never leave Isak’s ass.

Then, as per usual, Even somehow feels Isak’s gaze, and then they see each other, see how they’ve both been staring, and Isak feels more exposed than if he really was naked. Because for the first time, Even doesn’t look away. He doesn’t attempt to seem guilty, either. In fact, he looks encouraged.

Isak doesn’t move his eyes from Even either, as he pulls his left foot up and puts his right foot back, stretching out his left hip. The fact that this pose pushes out his ass further conveniently works in his favour.

And instead of moving his gaze away, Even moves it slowly, deliberately, from Isak’s eyes, across his shoulders, down his back, and settles once more on his ass.

And Isak doesn’t know what to do about that. He groans softly to himself, and hopes it comes across as part of the stretch, rather than what Even is doing to him. The low moan he hears from Even, he assumes is part of a strained ankle. Or—he tries to.

When they agree to meet up for the next run the day after tomorrow, he decides in advance that he’ll wear his lycra shorts, too. And he does his best to convince himself that they’re still just colleagues, training for a marathon, and there’s simply nothing else to it.

But right before he falls asleep, he gets a text that kills that attempt entirely.

 

** Even **

can’t sleep

want you here

i know you probably weren’t expecting this

but I mean it

fuck

let me touch you please

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... yeah we went there.
> 
> Isak is very perceptive with some things, and incredibly oblivious with others. And Even in this verse is a little OOC, but it will be explained in future chapters. Mostly the Mikael backstory and his own struggles at the moment (which Isak is unknowingly exacerbating). but don't worry, evak is always endgame.
> 
> next chapter is titled: 'damn you look ...'


	3. Not right now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter sees: Even opening up about his past; gangrene jokes; lots of warmth, even more cold; bad, awful puns; 'three's a crowd'; so/much/pining; more lusty stretching; and Mutta the matchmaker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for the warm comments <3 Here's an 11K chapter because apparently I have no filter or any form of discipline. 
> 
> This chapter goes into quite a bit of depth into Even's past and Isak's insecurities, but nothing that needs CW (I think--let me know if I'm wrong).
> 
> Even explains quite a bit of what happened with him and Mikael, and Isak's heart goes through some somersaults this chapter. The burn is slow. I hope it's not torturous. (Ok maybe a little).
> 
> Enjoy <3

 

** Even **

 

can’t sleep

want you here

i know you probably weren’t expecting this

but I mean it

fuck

let me touch you please

****

\--

****

Isak stares at the text.

He just stares. He can’t believe the letters are arranged into the words that he sees on screen. Even is texting him at midnight saying ‘ _let me touch you please_.’ Even. Wants To Touch Him. It can’t be real.

But Even has proven himself to be forward in the past, dropping hints and flirtations…and then the outright _staring_ on their first run.

Isak looks down at the phone again. The screen has gone dark. He taps it to wake it up again and rereads the messages.

It’s happening. It’s real. It’s there, in black and white.

The difficulty he has in accepting the evidence from his own eyes, is that this is what he dreams of—being encouraged by someone’s definite interest, rather than chasing the whiff of a possibility of attraction. Too often he’s lingered around a bar, or the dancefloor of a club, or a coffee shop, wishing that the obvious signs he was sending out to some guy would be reciprocated, that he wouldn’t be left in the grey area between rejection and acceptance, until they decided one way or the other if he was worth their time.

Over the years he’s just given up trying to figure out how to be attractive to strangers—no-one’s ever bought him a drink at a bar, or pushed him up against the wall of a nightclub to suck a hickey on his neck, or sent him dick pics in the small hours, or even asked him out on a coffee date. Jonas maintains Isak’s too closed off, he needs to be more overt in seeking attention. Mahdi has always sworn that Isak is not too closed off, _Jonas come on_ , but too available: Isak needs to be just out of reach—tempting to pursue, because it’s not guaranteed.

But, most days Isak lies in bed and dreams of someone simply being direct—just being obvious about their interest. And therefore saving him the daunting task of having to somehow be both more open and more inaccessible. Before he slips into sleep each night, Isak’s mind wanders through fantasies where he meets someone unexpectedly who just likes him instantly, and makes no secret of it. Someone who makes him feel less alone. Someone who compliments him. Praises him. Wants him.

And here, Even is enticing his attention. Demanding it. _Begging_ for it.

The forwardness is, Isak realises, what makes him so attractive. He’s exactly what Isak is looking for. He sees through Isak’s defences.

So, Isak decides to be as bold. And for Even, for the chance of Even’s affection, Isak is going to follow Mahdi’s advice. He doesn’t want to present himself as an eager possibility, but a fleeting attainability. Because he wants to hear Even say _please_ again. And again. And again.

He taps the phone alive and opens the text conversation, then starts typing:

_You’re right. I wasn’t expecting this … but I’m not wholly surprised. Not with the way you looked at me today_

_I liked it btw_

_I liked you looking_

But before he gets a chance to write the first line, let alone send it, another text from Even arrives. Then another. And another. And with them, Isak’s new-found confidence simply disappears.

 

** Even **

oh fy faen

Isak i’m so sorry

you were not supposed to get those texts!

shit

please don’t hate me

you’re well within your rights to be   
extremely creeped out right now

shit, honestly i’m so sorry

 

- 

 _Of course_ , Isak thinks.

This is his domain of expertise, now. The margins of desire, the liminal space where he’s neither repulsive nor objectionable—he’s just not the priority. There is always someone more enticing, more interesting, more desirable.

And Even’s made the easy mistake of opening the wrong conversation, because Isak looks like everyone else in his phone, he’s just like everyone else who Even texts at midnight soliciting for casual sex. Because Even can do that—Even can casually have sex, because sex is a casual occurrence for him.

Isak knows he has to reply to Even, or risk making work extremely uncomfortable the next day. And as much as he is familiar with this feeling of invisibility, undesirability—relaxed in it, even, as it’s so familiar by now—he’s still hurt. But he can’t let that show in his replies. Even cannot know.

And Isak knows the best way to cut right away from vulnerability: joke about it. No one wants the tension of reality when you can have the relief of a joke.

 

** Even **

****

no worries, man

sounds like you might be late for work though lol

should i cover for you with Johanne

yknow I’ll keep it casual: ‘even might be a bit late   
because he was busy last night DICKING SOMEONE DOWN’

 

yeah probably best not to talk to Johanne   
about any of that

?

ok this brings us to a burning question I’ve kept in since day one

which of course you’re free to not answer

but also I have to ask

what is the deal with you two?

nothing

not a big deal, anyway

idk i don’t want to involve you when  
you have to work with both of us

and it might be awkward

that doesn’t sound like ‘not a big deal’

but I won’t push

so, I guess instead

I should say

 ‘morning johanne. even’s got gangrene,   
no big deal, he’ll be in around lunchtime.’

gangrene??

where, and how, would I have gotten gangrene??

frostbite cut off all the blood to your fingers

injury went undetected (nerve damage) and went septic fast

debridement is the best option

amputation if it’s gone to the bone

why do you sound like you’re reading  
from a clipboard

oh I went to med school

so yeah. I actually performed a debridement surgery

this homeless guy had frostbite in both feet

and we had to remove the dead tissue

his name was terje. same as my dad. weird right

whoa isak

hold the fuck up

you went to med school?

yeah I almost qualified as a doctor

I was going to specialise in cardiology

but I dropped out in my last year

damn

you’re dangerous you know that

?

are you gonna make me say it

?? say what

you’re twenty-four

you got onto a highly competitive graduate   
programme (let’s overlook the fact that it’s   
gruntwork) working for the Norwegian government

which is a BIG DEAL for both of us, lbr

anyway, not only that but

you’re funny

you’re kind

you fundraise for charities by running  
actual marathons with your actual legs

I could write a whole other message here  
about said legs but I will refrain

and you just casually dropped into conversation  
that you also went to med school

so my point stands. you’re dangerous, valtersen

let’s not talk about med school for a bit

only if you come up with a better excuse for  
my tardiness than ‘gangrene’

you live in NORWAY

and you DON’T wear gloves

despite the fact that it’s JANUARY and   
we just hit a new RECORD LOW temperature

I’m amazed that none of your limbs are   
actually gangrenous

so, to be fair, this excuse is pretty solid   
in terms of believability

this is slander and I won’t stand for it

if you can stand at all

what with all the DICKING DOWN

GOOD

NIGHT

ISAK

 

\--

 

By the time they finish texting, Isak is close to sleep. But his mind is not quiet.

_I could write a whole other message here  
about said legs but I will refrain_

Though the suggestiveness is exciting, a not insignificant part of Isak is angry. Angry that Even flirts with him. That he has the _freedom_ to flirt with him, the confidence, the certainty that it won’t backfire.

But he’s more angry that he is so helpless in the face of it. When Even made that comment about his legs, a rush of blood went immediately to throb between his thighs. The effect of Even’s words is always instantaneous and Isak hates feeling so weak to it. He’s back in that grey area—just dangling, waiting, hoping that the guy he wants so _so_ badly will finally just let him in.

Isak is close to dreaming now. And his mind drifts to what Even must look like in bed, somewhere else in Oslo at the same time. Hair down, without any product in it, and teeth just brushed, so he smells minty and sleep-soft. Isak imagines curling up to him, and sinking into the pillow where his head rests, and gently caressing his arm. He imagines how Even would move closer, pull Isak in, until they were entirely wound around each other.

But just as he can almost feel Even’s hands on him, the image slips away. And it’s replaced by grey. Instead, Isak tries to force himself to imagine a role reversal—where he’s pursuing Even, not just waiting around and hoping.

But Isak’s never been the first person to make a move. The mere thought terrifies him, even in dreams. He’s somehow always positioned himself as the passive party, the guy who trails along after, the guy who can be picked up and then dropped with equal indifference.

Isak sits up in bed. Stares out his window at the streetlamps’ downward rays of light, illuminating the fresh flurry of snow.

It’s peaceful. It’s serene. And Isak is cold.

The idea of treating Even the way Even treats him is … anathema to him. He can’t fathom it. Just walking into work and dropping a passing remark, ‘Morning, Even. Like the tie. Didn’t have to dress up for me though. You know I like a good dressing-down.’

The thought of it makes Isak cringe. It’s just not him. It’s just not how he talks. It’s not how he thinks. What he thinks is, _I wish those fucking texts were for me_.

He burrows back down in the blankets.

And the anger returns. It’s not fair that Even can be that forward. It’s not fair that Isak is caged in by anxiety and misgivings. It’s not fair that he’s still a virgin at twenty-four and that as fiercely as he wants to be with someone, he won’t settle for an anonymous Grindr hook-up, or a desperate one-night stand with someone who won’t want anything else. He wants the real deal.

He wants. He _wants_. And the more he wants, the angrier he becomes at how unattainable it all seems, how uneven the scales of equality are. How fucking _lonely_ he is.

He’s in the grey area, and he starts to wonder if the colour will ever come back.

\--

As if predicted by the jokes exchanged in their texts the previous night, Even is late to work.

Isak glances at the clock on the wall, surprised when he realises it’s nearly ten, and Even still isn’t in. And he hasn’t seen Johanne this morning, either.

He takes another sip of the awful instant coffee from their ‘kitchen,’ and takes his phone out. He considers texting Even. Or Johanne. In a brief moment of panic, he googles to make sure he didn’t accidentally go to work on a public holiday, but realises he definitely is meant to be in work. He just has no idea where anyone else is.

Electing to chalk up the absence to something that requires neither worry nor action, Isak sticks his earphones in and starts listening to Chance the Rapper to get through the stack of event planners from the nineteen-fifties.

Just as Isak starts to get into a rhythm, the door bursts open with Even practically running into the room. He’s got his jacket half-off, he’s sweating in a way that suggests stress rather than exertion, he clearly hasn’t showered, and he looks like he’s barely slept.

‘Morning?’ Isak asks, bewildered.

‘Hey,’ Even pants back. ‘Sorry. I’m late. I know.’ He drops his bag at the desk and flops into the chair. Isak rolls his own chair around the end of the table so he can see Even properly. It’s only when he does so that he finds Even has slumped face forward and draped himself stomach-down across the seat.

‘Everything ok?’

‘Yeah,’ Even says, in a way that highly suggests he means _no_ , ‘just a rough night.’

The fact that all the blood is rushing to his head at that angle makes his voice sound nasal. ‘And before you ask, no, there was no dicking down.’

‘So why the omnishambles?’ Isak asks, barely containing his smirk.

‘Rude,’ Even says, before planting both hands on the ground and pushing himself up onto his feet. ‘I was going to tell you but now I don’t feel inclined.’

Isak rolls his eyes as he scoots back to his desk. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘I’m going to make a coffee either way,’ Even says, ignoring Isak’s petulance, and straightening his crumpled shirt. ‘You want anything?’

Isak glances at the still-hot cup of coffee that he just made. ‘Yeah, this is cold,’ he shrugs, following Even out to the closet.

As the kettle boils, Even bemoans—at length—the demands of his commute that morning, the discomfort of the packed tram, the ice on the footpaths, the pounding of his head: Isak realises he hasn’t really heard Even complain before, and feels that something is off. Something is bothering him, but he doesn’t know what.

‘Well at least it’s Friday,’ Even says.

Isak’s head snaps up to fix a confused gaze on him. ‘Even…’ he starts. He’s not sure if he’s joking or not. Surely he is?

‘What?’ Even asks, entirely oblivious.

‘It’s definitely Wednesday.’

His face falls. ‘You’re not serious,’ Even says, taking his phone out of his pocket to check the home screen, where, sure enough, it states, _Ønsdag 23. Januar._

‘Oh noooo,’ he moans, holding his phone to his forehead, and screwing his eyes shut in frustration. ‘This is a nightmare.’

‘Why did you think it was Friday?’ Isak asks, unable to stop himself from laughing. ‘We went for a run yesterday and agreed to go for another on Thursday. Which is tomorrow.’

‘Yeah, I just—ugh,’ Even says, ‘last night was such a shitfest that I’ve lost all track of things.’

The measly naked bulb hanging overhead casts a harsh light over their heads, and looming shadows on the ground, but, Isak thinks, it’s oddly warm. A small silence falls between them, punctuated by the ‘click’ of the kettle. Even pours the hot water into their two mugs—his own, a green one with a personalised family photo on it; Isak’s, a battered blue one he’d picked up in Fretex on Universitetsgata.

The sound of the granules dissolving and the water swirling around is soothing for a moment, and Isak takes a deep inhale to enjoy the hit of caffeine. And to gather some courage.

‘Yeah,’ Isak says, as Even hands him his mug, ‘about last night.’

His eyes are on the ground, and he sees how Even shifts his feet nervously. Even clears his throat, makes a muted sound of agreement, and then says, ‘I should explain.’

‘You really don’t have to,’ Isak interrupts, letting himself look at Even now, Even who has fear written all over his face. ‘I’m not angry or anything.’

They both stand in the too-small closet and hold their mugs. By some tacit agreement they both elect to stay there for this conversation: the archive, they intuitively decide, is for work and playtime. The closet is where they can be honest. Isak’s not sure when it both became clear to them that this was the case.

‘Thank you for being so laidback about all of it,’ Even says. The overhead light makes his face half-light half-shadow, and Isak wants to touch it. ‘I know we joke around a lot, but genuinely, thank you.’

Even reaches out and touches Isak’s upper arm gently, glancing his thumb back and forth for a few moments, before returning his arm to his side and looking back down into his coffee.

Isak senses this is the beginning of Even’s explanation rather than a deflection, so he waits. Not least because he doesn’t know how to digest Even’s compliments without getting a little overwhelmed. For right now, he tries to sip the coffee, but it’s still boiling, and he realises too late that his hastiness is going to leave a sore.

Even notices the grimace on his face and can’t keep from smiling, regardless of how serious his tone just was. ‘Bit too warm?’ he asks, biting his lip teasingly.

‘No, actually,’ Isak replies, stubborn as ever.

‘I swear,’ Even says fondly, ‘you insist I’m too content with the cold, but I’ve never met anyone so adamant about everything being hot.’

‘What?’ Isak asks, taken aback by this. So what if he brought in his own space heater? It’s January in a rotten old basement in Oslo. And yeah, ok, he also brought a blanket in that he keeps on his chair for emergencies. And another one when he saw Even wearing a coat inside one day.

‘You love being hot,’ Even explains. ‘No, actually, you _demand_ to be hot. I’m certain that if you had to expose even an inch of skin to an atmosphere of less than ten degrees Celsius you’d swoon onto your deathbed and expire.’

Isak rolls his eyes. ‘Says the guy who literally has chilblains because he’s _too stubborn_ to just buy some fucking gloves.’

‘They are not chilblains! My hands are just sensitive.’

Even takes a sip from his coffee and realises, like Isak, he’s far underestimated it. The frown now on his features makes Isak let out a giggle, and it’s not long before Even joins in.

‘Seems like your tongue is a bit sensitive, too,’ Isak says, still smirking.

‘I don’t know, doc, why don’t you take a look at it? Tell me if I’ve got gangrene?’ Even asks, raising his eyebrows and stepping forward into Isak’s space. Isak heart is pounding.

‘And just how would you get gangrene on your _tongue_ , Even?’ he asks, mostly to cut the tension he now feels with Even in his personal space, offering him his _tongue_.

‘I’m not the one who went to med school,’ Even replies. But Isak can’t help the way the reminder affects him, as he feels the ugly kick to his self-esteem that comes every time he thinks about those wasted years. But Even clocks the defeated look on Isak’s face, and he steps back again.

Isak can breathe.

‘Sorry,’ Even says quietly, ‘I know you don’t want to talk about that.’

‘It’s ok,’ Isak replies at once. He doesn’t want Even to tiptoe around it. As always, Even is an exception. ‘I’ll tell you sometime. Just… you were going to tell me about last night.’

‘Yeah,’ Even says. He stirs his coffee and takes another deep breath. ‘I—I accidentally texted you when I wanted to text… someone else. I’d opened the wrong chat in my phone. But in a way it’s a good thing I did because—well, I would’ve really regretted following through on that. Or, worse again, them seeing those messages when they woke up.’

The sting across Isak’s chest is strong, but it fades quickly. It’s not news that he’s not wanted.

‘You’ve probably gathered a certain amount just from inference alone, but—I—when I was in London with Mikael, those three years were really intense for both of us.’

The sudden change of subject alerts Isak to the fact that the booty call and Mikael are somehow connected. At once Isak wonders if Even meant to _send_ the texts to Mikael—but remembers with relief that Mikael is in London. But that doesn’t explain why Even is now telling him about London.

Even speaks slowly, calmly, like he’s been preparing for this conversation many times, alone in his room, trying to get his thoughts in order. Isak is tempted to reach out and touch him, but stops himself. It wouldn’t help. Either of them.

‘Mikael was my best friend in Bakka. He’s still my best friend, in some ways. But. I came out in our last year of school, right after I kissed him—and he was my first kiss. Even though he didn’t reciprocate. Well, he didn’t reciprocate the kiss… he was very forward in other ways. Misleading, too. It’s hard to know if it was deliberate or not. Anyway. The point is, it’s always been a little complicated,’ he says, and it’s clear from his voice that that part of the story is well-trod ground. Isak senses there’s thorny territory ahead.

‘When we were both in LFA, Mikael stated questioning his sexuality, too. Came out as bi in our first year. Then gay in our second. And I ignored the string of Grindr hook-ups that trailed in and out of the flat every weekend. I convinced myself I wasn’t as smitten as I was, for a while at least. But, everything got really bad the year we spent looking for jobs,’ Even says, rubbing absent-mindedly at his nose.

‘We were living in this miserable student flat in Hackney with mice and a loose lock on the door—it was dire. And the worse it got the more I relied on him for comfort, and started having feelings for him that I just couldn’t ignore. It got to the point where I’m not sure if my feelings were genuine, or some strange attempt to find relief in a really bad situation. I mean, we were so broke,’ he says, breaking off in a laugh. ‘ _So_ broke. Which hurt more because we had such high hopes for getting good jobs when we finished in LFA but then … nothing. Just _nothing_. So we ended up doing minimum wage gigs and desperately trying to make ends meet. But at least we were still friends, still flatmates, still supporting each other. Until—until the night I told him in excruciating detail how much I was in love with him.’

Isak nearly drops his mug. He hadn’t been expecting that. And, with a horrible twist in his gut, he understands that this is why Even moved back to Oslo. _He’s in love with Mikael._

‘I don’t even know why I’m trying to drink this, it’s so gross,’ Even says with a dry chuckle, as he pours the coffee into the sink. ‘Anyway,’ he continues, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on his shoes, ‘it was a mess. I was manic when I told him, and Mikael chalked it all up to that. But who the fuck is he to tell me how I feel? Like, fine, ok, he had a point in that I probably wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t manic. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t true.’

Even then notices the alarmed look on Isak’s face and gives him a wry smile. ‘Too many double negatives?’

Isak shakes his head. ‘No… no. Not that. I, um…’

‘Oh I didn’t tell you I was bipolar?’ Even says, casually. ‘I thought I had. Well, yeah. Impulse control is not my prime strength at the best of times anyway.’

‘No!’ Isak says, scared now that Even took his reticence as discomfort. ‘I just—I didn’t know you weren’t straight.’

The fact that both of Even’s eyebrows rise is enough to make Isak feel immediately mortified at being so blunt.

‘You thought I was straight?’ Even asks, humour clear in his voice.

‘Just…continue,’ Isak says, covering his face with his free hand. ‘I’m going to stop talking.’

‘I mean,’ Even goes on, ‘I understand why. I’m pretty “straight-passing,” I guess. And…well, there’s a whole bunch of internalised homophobia that I’m still dealing with, not helped by Mikael consciously or unconsciously gaslighting me. But yeah. I’m definitely not straight.’

‘I’m gay,’ Isak blurts out.

He had _meant_ for it to sound more well-thought-out, and wrapped up in a natural segue, but in his anxiety to prove that he had no issues with either Even’s mental health or sexuality, it never had a chance to be filtered, being flung simply from his brain out into words.

Even is a little startled at Isak’s unprovoked admission, but smiles a little, and then nods, silently expressing his gratitude for Isak’s honesty and trust.

‘When I came out in Bakka,’ he says, ‘I just came out as bi, because my parents—lovely as they are—they don’t get that there are more than two genders. So I figured baby steps was better. If I blurted out the word “pansexual,” it’d take much longer to get where we are now.’

 _Pansexual_ , Isak thinks. That one he doesn’t know. But he knows what he’s researching tonight.

‘I don’t know,’ Even says, hesitant now, ‘I might be boring you with this, we don’t have to—’

‘No please,’ Isak interrupts. ‘I want to know.’

‘Alright,’ Even smiles, tilting his head. ‘I reiterate, you’re dangerous, Valtersen.’

Isak sighs dramatically and gestures for him to get on with it.

‘Ok yeah. So, um. Yeah,’ Even says, nervously tapping his finger against the cupboard behind him. ‘I told Mikael I was in love with him. He basically refused to listen. And I moved out the next week. I was so frustrated that he wouldn’t believe it or respond to it. It just made me feel fucking invisible. And what’s more frustrating is that he’s been by my side through every episode I’ve ever had, he _knows_ when I’m being truthful, and he’s chosen to ignore it because of whatever the hell he’s not dealing with. Anyway. We… we haven’t really spoken since.’

‘Are you in love with him?’ Isak hears himself ask. He doesn’t feel embarrassed asking, either. He needs to know.

Even pauses. He considers it. Isak sees it in how he chews his lip on one side and then the other, narrows his eyes, crosses his other foot, and then takes another breath.

‘Maybe,’ he says at last. ‘I don’t know. At this point I don’t know if I was in love with him or if I just didn’t know any other way of wanting someone. Lately I’ve been thinking it’s the latter, because…’

He drifts off for a moment, his eyes focused on some far corner of the room, but his gaze going much further.

‘Because,’ he continues, ‘after years of doting on him, wishing he’d just _see_ me, and bringing him into every single decision I made, he broke my heart. So I—I feel like I don’t want to open it up to anyone else. And that’s not love, you know? That’s anger.’

Isak doesn’t stop himself from reaching out, now. He puts a hand on Even’s arm and closes his fingers around it. Even nods and smiles in gratitude.

He never anticipated that he and Even would share so much. Though Isak recognises the vast differences in their experience, to hear Even articulate feelings he thought were unique to him is more reassuring and enlightening than he could ever have hoped for.

Not that alone, but the fact that they’re both squeezed into a utility closet two weeks into a new job and Even is sure enough in himself to be so open, and trusts Isak enough to hear it, is more than a little humbling. Isak suddenly doesn’t know what he’ll say when they come out of the closet. The metaphor is painful, but, he realises, it’s still weirdly apt.

After a moment, Isak pulls his hand away again, and it is burning.

‘Last night,’ Even continues quietly, ‘Mikael sent me a text. Doesn’t matter really what it said. But I wanted a distraction and I accidentally sent you those very stupid messages. After that, I decided to be an adult and reply to Mikael. He FaceTimed me, and we had a very long, and very heated argument. I didn’t go to sleep until maybe 6. And then slept right through my alarm.’

Isak gives him a tentative smile. He doesn’t know how to process everything and be Even’s friend at the same time. He wants this conversation to be over, now. He just wants out. And he hates that he does. So, he deflects.

‘Man, I wish for your sake you _had_ been too busy getting off to be on time, rather than losing sleep over an argument.’

Even shrugs. It betrays an unwillingness to be flippant, and Isak stops trying to lighten the mood.

‘It must’ve been weird as fuck for you,’ Even says, apologetically, ‘but I’m glad I texted a booty call to the wrong person. I’m done with casually hooking up with people when what I need is totally inaccessible from another one-night stand.’

And though he knows he’ll regret it, Isak asks, ‘What do you mean? Like… you just want friendship or relationships from now on?’

‘No,’ he says, and the sadness in his voice is unmistakeable. ‘I don’t want to be with anyone when I’m … trapped in anger. And not just anger, I mean, all that time wasted trying to get Mikael to love me back has just _numbed_ the vulnerable parts of me. Like this,’ he says, gesturing between them, ‘ _this_ is fine because it’s basically me explaining why I was late for work. But when it comes to real relationships, when I have to be truly vulnerable with someone? I run a mile. And I don’t want to be with anyone if I’m that bound by fear. It’s not fair to them.’

A silence falls between them again, and it’s nervous, hesitant, like they’re both unsure what to do about it.

Isak can feel the hurt return, but he fights it, he knows it’s uncalled-for, that Even owes him nothing. Yet it still rises in his chest.

He looks up at Even, and sees the fear and discomfort in his eyes. But there’s sadness, too. And Isak isn’t sure if he really sees it, or if that’s the only thing he tries to recognise.

Then, Even reaches for the door handle, and glances at Isak for confirmation. Isak nods.

As they walk back through the grey hallway and into the harshly lit archive room, Isak stares at the black coffee in his cup and hears Even’s words run around his head.

_That’s not love, you know? That’s anger._

Isak’s coffee is just warm enough to drink, now. But he’s cold to the bone.

\--

A week passes. During the day, they both go to work as usual, Even continues to torment Isak with his squeaky chair (which he, notably, did _not_ oil, despite bringing in the WD-40), Isak continues to protest it (despite being strangely flattered by the attention), and they pointedly avoid talking about Mikael or about med school.

But as Isak walks into the archive room on the following Monday, he realises at once it can’t be another usual week at work. Because Even is sitting at the microfiche machine, in rapt concentration, and he’s wearing … glasses. And they’re stupidly fashionable—horn-rimmed on top and frameless underneath—and they make him look … he looks …

Even looks up – and that’s when Isak also notices that he’s rolled up his shirt sleeves to his elbows. And the world, Isak’s world, stops.

He knows he’s got a thing for Even’s hands, but that’s only emphasised by his forearms which are apparently a little pale and, he now knows, freckled and lithe.

And he can feel the blood rush to his face, at the image Even now strikes, academic and semiformal and unselfconscious all at the same time.

‘Damn,’ Isak says. And then immediately wonders where his filter went.

‘That bad, huh?’ Even asks, smiling widely. He swings around from the desk to face Isak. ‘I went and got an eye test last week and turns out my eyesight was getting a little bad anyway. I imagine squinting at a dim screen in an artificially lit basement isn’t helping. Hence,’ he says, gesturing at the glasses, which are now framing his face in a way that Isak finds difficult to look at.

‘No, they’re alright,’ Isak says, clearing his throat in a poor attempt to deflect from the fact that his face is aflame. ‘I mean, you have to _see_ ,’ he mumbles, as he walks over to his own chair and hides behind the monitor.

‘Hey Isak,’ Even says playfully, as if they hadn’t _just_ been speaking.

‘Yeah?’

‘How did the computer get drunk?’

Isak frowns and stares at the microfiche machine in front of him. He had just pulled out a film and put it under the lens, so he knows it’s working fine, as the pointless update about a library move is inflated on the screen.

‘What are you talking about?’ he asks back. ‘My machine is fine.’

‘Iiiiiisak,’ Even says, exasperated. ‘Answer the question. How did the computer get drunk?’

Isak huffs to himself. ‘If this is another one of your fucking awful dad jokes—’

But Even interrupts with audible glee, ‘It took too many screenshots!’

As Even falls apart with laughter, Isak can feel his brain flare with momentary confusion, and then disbelieving fury.

‘Nope,’ he says, standing up from the desk and striding for the door in resolute denial.

Even doesn’t try to stop him, as he’s clutching his stomach and buckled over with delight. It’s so loud that Isak can hear it from the hallway even as the door closes.

He doesn’t go anywhere. He just stands in the hallway, his back flat against the wall. It’s not like he wants to be away from Even. But he knows part of Even’s joy from annoying Isak is Isak’s dramatic reaction. And he never wants to deprive Even of anything that’ll make him laugh as much as he’s laughing now.

Once the laughter dies down, he goes back into the room and sees him, still sitting in his chair, wiping his glasses lenses with the corner of his shirt, which he’s pulled out from where it was tucked into his pants. And now Isak can see the faint trail of hair leading under his waistband. And he knows he should’ve just stayed in the damn hallway for the rest of the day. The trifecta of glasses, rolled sleeves and happy trail, is too much for one tiny room.

‘I couldn’t resist,’ Even says, still smiling, ‘sorry.’

‘You are _not_ sorry,’ Isak retorts, but there’s no venom in it. He’s still struggling with the three-fold problem Even doesn’t know he’s presenting.

‘Have I angered the great Valtersen? Are you going to refuse to train with me now?’ he asks, still light-hearted.

Isak performs a sigh, and then shrugs with a small smile. ‘I guess I’ll have to fall back on my perpetual beneficence and let this one go.’

‘I’m happy to hear it,’ Even says, ‘because I wanted to ask if you heard the joke about the bed.’

‘The joke about the bed?’ Isak asks. He knows he shouldn’t. But.

‘Yeah. It hasn’t been made up yet,’ Even says.

Isak frowns for a second while he wonders why Even would tell him about a joke that doesn’t exist. And then—

‘Oh for _fuck_ sake!,’ Isak shouts, ‘you fucking—you just—’

Even jumps forward and reaches both hands out, placating. ‘Please don’t hate me,’ he says, gently holding onto Isak’s arms, and biting his lip to try and suppress his glee. ‘I honestly—I said it before I thought about it—’

Isak makes a show of trying to shake him off while not actually pushing him away. And he continues to splutter indignantly, ‘You are so—I don’t understand why I tolerate your _bullshit_ —’

But Even reacts exactly as Isak had hoped: he holds Isak closer and then, gently, wraps him in a hug. And Isak suddenly finds himself tucked into Even’s hold, his face pressed into Even’s neck, his hands curled into fists against Even’s chest, while the very forearms that prefaced this ridiculous interaction are encircling him.

And now Isak has a nose full of Even’s cologne, along with being able to feel the warmth and softness of his skin, and he feels almost ill at ease with how badly he wants to sink into it. Stay there. And never leave.

But he remembers how explicit Even was.

 _This_ _is fine_ … _but when it comes to real relationships—_

‘Forgive me?’ Even asks, and Isak can feel his lips move in his hair. He wants to squirm.

‘Yeah alright,’ he mumbles, before he extricates himself from Even’s arms, and walks to his chair without another word.

\--

That night Isak stares out at the snow-capped Sofienberg park from his windowsill, and plays over their conversation in the closet on repeat. But he knows it’s no good. He might try to find hope in it, to see if there’s a way that he can pursue what he wants for the first time, but he knows it would be unfair to Even, who’s been so clear about where he is, about what he wants. More than that, Even has worked through to what he _needs_ , and is prioritising that above anything else, as he should. And Isak knows he has to respect that.

Still. He takes some comfort in knowing they have the same problem, from different sides. And as another snow drift comes in over Sofienberg church, erasing it from Isak’s vision for half an hour, he tries to persuade himself that he should treat Even solely as a work colleague, a running buddy, maybe a good friend at the most. And that he can be happy with that.

When Sofienberg church appears again, he’s not sure if he fully convinced himself.

\--

The 11 tram to Stortorvet the next morning is hellish, again. Isak is squashed between some teenagers on their way to school, and the side-doors, so every time the tram stops and a crowd gets in and out, he is either pushed into sweaty boys or the slushy street. He considers getting off and walking the rest of the way, before he remembers how slippy the packed snow is, now that a new layer of ice has settled on it overnight. Most parts of the city are salted but he doesn’t want to take the risk of being stuck on an impromptu icerink while he tries to just cross the street.

He tries not to let the inconvenience of the weather, and the lack of personal space on the tram, get him in a bad mood. But there are people everywhere and he wishes he was still in bed and he hates his job and he wants to do something that makes him feel valued, and he misses Sana, and he wants a coffee, and his back hurts from being hunched at the desk, and he’s got the beginnings of a headcold coming on, and –

He sighs heavily, and forces himself to stop fixating. Once he gets off the tram, he’ll be much better able to deal with everything else. He just needs to get off the damn tram.

Once it pulls up to Stortorvet, Isak lets out a breath of relief and rushes out of the barely-open doors. His enthusiasm is almost deadly—he slips a little as he leaves the tram stop, but rights himself before doing any damage. It serves to keep his ego in check.

By the time he enters the Ministry building, he is almost in a good mood, helped along by listening to some N.W.A. to ease out most of his tension. He wonders if Even is still wearing his glasses or if he’s got contacts. He wonders if they might spend their lunch break outside the microfiche archive today. (Because the weather is so unwelcoming, they decided to repurpose a less populated corner of the room into their ‘staff lounge’—read, the blanket Isak lent to Even which operates as a picnic blanket, and some paper flowers in a paper vase that Even made from old calendars during their second lunch break spent in the ‘staff lounge.’) But Isak wants to get out of that tiny monochrome room, even if it’s just to run to the nearest Kaffebrenneriet for 45 minutes. Plus, he likes seeing Even in colour.

But as he enters the microfiche room, ready to tell Even about his plan, he sees someone else sitting in Even’s chair. Someone shorter, and wearing loafers with his preppy suit. Isak hates him on sight.

‘Hi…?’ he says, confused. ‘Who are you?’

The guy smiles, but it’s waxy, and fake. ‘Morning!’ he says, too excitedly, ‘I’m Anders. I’m the new grad start.’

Isak barely listens. ‘Where’s Even?’

Anders purses his lips and narrows his eyes a bit. ‘Uhm,’ he says, doubtfully, ‘I’m not sure who that is? Sorry. I thought Johanne was our boss?’

‘She is. But I’m asking where Even is because you were just sitting in his chair. Besides Johanne never mentioned that another grad start was joining,’ Isak bites back. He knows he’s being rude, but he can’t find it in him to care that much. This Anders guy is clearly lost. There are only two machines in this room and Isak’s not sharing them. He’s not sharing anything.

‘Oh,’ Anders says, ‘well, I uh…I haven’t met Johanne yet either. And sorry—I didn’t know that was someone’s chair.’

‘There’s a jumper draped on the back, and the machine in front of it has personal possessions on both sides,’ Isak retorts, ‘What exactly escaped your powers of deduction on that one?’

‘I like you,’ Anders says, with another waxy smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘You just say what you mean, don’t you?’

‘Listen Anders, I’m sure you’re a genuine guy,’ Isak lies, ‘but I think there’s been a miscommunication somewhere. Because Even and I are working through this archive, and there are only two machines at that makeshift desk. So there isn’t accommodation for a third. Anyway this is just standard data entry work—I’m sure Johanne can find you something more on your level.’

Anders raises his eyebrows. It makes Isak fume though he’s not sure why. But before Anders has a chance to respond, the door opens—in walks Even.

He sees Isak first and is about to say hello when his glance shifts to Anders. His face seems to go through a similar response to Anders that Isak articulated in words.

‘Morning Even,’ Isak starts, performing a pleasant demeanour, ‘This is Anders. He’s just been telling me that he’s a new grad start, too. But I think there might have been a miscommunication.’

Even is visibly suspicious of Isak’s tone, but lingers only slightly on him before offering a hand to Anders. ‘Morning. Nice to meet you,’ he says, and it sounds genuine, Isak realises. Because somehow it is.

Anders smiles at him, but Isak notices it’s not the same fake one he got. It’s wider, and his eyes close with it. Isak would be jealous except that Anders is not going to be sticking around—once Johanne gets in, she’ll clear everything up, and then it’ll just be him and Even. As it should be.

‘Coffee?’ Even asks them both, evidently trying to diffuse the tension he walked in on.

Isak shrugs, ‘Yeah alright,’ and goes to follow Even out.

‘I’ll join too, shall I?’ Anders offers, eager as ever, but, before he registers he’s done it, Isak swivels on his heel and holds up both hands in objection.

‘Uh,’ he says, forcing his hands back down into a normal pose. Anders looks at him in confusion. Even meanwhile is staring at him incredulously.

Isak continues explaining to Anders, ‘You … you can stay here. Familiarise yourself with… the … machines.’ The weak gestures he makes around the room to indicate what Anders could ‘familiarise himself with’ are enough to make Even snort, and then try and cover it up with a cough.

Ignoring him, Isak goes on, ‘Our kitchen is really just a utility closet, we won’t all fit. Health and safety, and all that. So, yeah. Be right back.’

Before he can embarrass himself further, Isak opens the door and pushes Even out in front of him. He immediately puts a finger to his mouth, gesturing to Even that they should stay silent until well out of Anders’ earshot.

Once they both crowd into the closet, Even lets out a disbelieving laugh. ‘What was _that_ about?’

‘I don’t know,’ Isak admits. ‘I literally told you everything the minute you walked in. He says he’s a new grad start, and he knows about Johanne somehow. But there’s no way there should be three of us doing this mindless job. Besides, there are only two machines.’

Even hums. ‘I see that. But to be fair, it would be quicker if there was another person. You know? Like, one of us dictates the information from the screen and another types it down. It might help us organise the files better too, having someone else there to make a system for it, rather than just the two of us picking up the closest folders to us.’

Isak sees his point—he really does. But he doesn’t understand how Even is so calm about this when Isak feels like his privacy is being violated.

‘What is your problem?’ Even asks him, visibly amused by Isak’s disdain for their comrade.

‘Two’s company,’ Isak ripostes. ‘Three’s a crowd.’

‘Isak,’ Even sighs. ‘He might be a nice guy. He could be a missing link we didn’t know we needed! Give him a chance, he’s literally just got in the door.’

‘There’s no space!’ Isak argues. ‘Where is he supposed to work? That whole set up is meant for two people. And look at where we’re standing _right now_.’

‘Why the instant dislike?’ Even asks, still amused. ‘Too preppy for your taste?’ Even gives no time for Isak to reply before barrelling on, ‘Although you might have a point there. He looks like the kind of guy whose parents gave him a boat when he turned eighteen. But if he is, we’d have a rich friend who hosts boat parties. Think of the possibilities, Isak!’

Ignoring his incessant optimism, Isak pauses on the question and realises he _is_ really bothered by Anders’ sudden presence. And it’s because the days of them being alone are over, now. There’s no more excuse for them to share the kind of intimacy they’d gotten used to. And while that’s a welcome relief in some ways—they can’t date after all, so this had to happen sometime—Isak finds his feelings railing violently against it.

Even however is too tuned into Isak’s internal workings. He lowers his voice and asks gently, ‘Everything ok in there?’

Knowing he can’t explain the real reason, Isak smiles wryly and shrugs. ‘Aren’t you horrified that the only people getting these graduate roles are white cis men? Where is the diversity, Mr Politically Correct?’

Even looks momentarily surprised, before tilting into something unbearably fond as he gazes at Isak. ‘Diversity?’ he repeats, smiling widely, the kind of smile that Isak can’t help but mirror, ‘You’re mad about diversity?’

‘The _lack_ of diversity,’ Isak corrects, ‘is appalling.’

‘Well Mr Diversity,’ Even says, ‘we better make that coffee now or Mr Hegemony is going to wonder where the fuck we are.’

‘These are terrible names,’ Isak laughs. ‘Mr Hegemony? Really?’

‘Mr Symbol of Endemic Patriarchal Values doesn’t really roll off the tongue. Plus, he might be a nice guy,’ Even says.

\--

Anders, it turns out, did get a boat on his eighteenth birthday. And he got a place on the graduate program because his dad is friend with the Minister of Education. Two facts he shares openly with Isak and Even when they get to know each other over coffee.

When Johanne arrives, she reiterates what Anders had already explained and gestures helplessly around the room at possible tasks for him. She says she will try and organise a third microfiche machine, but it is clear from the look on her face that such an attempt would be futile.

They settle into a routine for the rest of the day—Anders naturally gravitates to Even (who doesn’t?), and acts as his amanuensis. Isak tries not to be jealous, he really does. But the blunt fact is that they get through more work in those seven hours than any other day prior. And Isak feels the absence of intimacy in that strict professionalism like a sharp draught that no amount of warmth can keep out.

 

\--

Isak and Even meet later that week after work, just outside Sofienberg church, for their next run. Isak had worried for a split second that Even might be the bigger person and invite Anders to join them, maybe even run the marathon with them. But when Anders asked them what they were up to that evening, Even didn’t blink before he convincingly lied, ‘Mmm I have to go help a friend move flat from Frogner to Tøyen. And I’ve enlisted Isak’s help, too. You wanna give us hand?’

Anders, not having any idea who this fake friend was, understandably turned the invite down. Isak stored it away as a brilliant lie to get out of awkward situations.

Which means he’s now free to be with Even alone again. He knows it’s stupid to think that way, but the feeling is there, and it’s undeniable. He craves his company, and he detests having to share it.

He hops from foot to foot to keep himself warm as he waits for Even outside the church, and he tries to mentally steel himself for whatever Even is going to wear this time. He has prepared himself for the fact that he finds Even attractive when he’s in running gear. Nothing can be worse than the lycra shorts, anyway, so anything else will be easier to deal with.

But Even appears, wearing leggings, that seem to just emphasise how long his legs are in the first place, how the muscles work under his skin, how _much_ of him there is. And then, to make matters worse again, he’s opted for a shirt that’s just a bit too small for him.

So, as they start their warm-up poses, Even begins with his favourite, the oblique stretch, and at once the shirt disappears up his belly and exposes the trail of hair from his bellybutton and leading underneath his pants. When he does his shoulder stretch, the shirt rides back from his neck and shows off his collarbone. When he does a forward bend to stretch out his lower back, his shoulders have never looked better under that tight cotton. And Isak is already sweating, though they haven’t started to even run yet.

‘Hey by the way I brought headphones,’ Isak says, trying to keep his gaze off of Even. He pulls the spare set of bluetooth earbuds out of his backpocket.

Even looks at him, confused. ‘But I don’t have my phone?’

‘You can connect to my playlist,’ Isak explains, handing him the spare set.

‘Hmm,’ Even says, suspiciously, ‘I don’t know. What if your taste in music is appalling?’

‘Are you really going to stand there and insult Pride Classics?’ Isak asks.

Even raises his eyebrows. ‘Pride Classics?’

Too embarrassed all of a sudden, Isak nonchalantly drops into a forward bend to stretch out his lower back, and shrugs a bit on the way down. ‘Yeah. What of it?’

‘I didn’t take you for an 80s disco anthem, Whitney Houston, Vogue, kind of guy is all,’ he hears Even say.

‘Why?’ Isak asks. ‘They’re good songs.’

‘I know,’ Even says, ‘that’s what’s surprising.’

Isak draws himself up to his full height again and levels a disapproving glare at Even. ‘You’re so funny,’ he says, deadpan. ‘Now are you gonna try to run with me this time or are you gonna count the cracks in the footpath again?’

He finishes talking while starting a warm-up jog away from Even, who shouts, ‘ _Rude!_ ’ and soon catches up.

And this training session is better. They manage a 5k closer to 35 minutes, thanks to Isak being eager to get home and stop being so helplessly aroused by the shape of Even’s ass in his skin-tight leggings. Especially when he sees it bounce, which shouldn’t be sexy, it should be _silly_ , _hilarious, stupid_ , but he breaks out in a new sweat each time his eyes fall on it. Or seek it out actively, as the case may be.

In their cool-down stretches, as Isak assumes a cow pose-into-cat pose to try and loosen up his back, he glances over to Even—who’s in pigeon pose over his right leg—and sees how Even’s eyes are fixed on his shoulders, his ass, his thighs.

Isak knows it, deep down. He can feel how Even wants him in these moments. At work, they’re colleagues sharing an arduous task. When they’re running, they’re just two guys training for a marathon. But here, when their bodies are tired and flushed and at their most defenceless, here, Even wants him and makes no show of hiding it.

But, Isak realises, it’s only possible, and only acceptable, in these moments. Unspoken, and never acted on. It’s just two people who are young and fit and see the attraction in how the other person’s arms flex in a plank position, how their ankles look as they finish their final kilometre, how their necks flush in exertion when they take a break to undo a stitch.

Even might let unbridled lust flash through his eyes, but it’s a passing interest. It’s still the grey area.

They finish their cool-down stretches, and get back on their feet.

‘I’m starving,’ Isak states, mostly for himself, as he does a mental checklist of what’s in his fridge. _Cheese, beer, some rotting spinach, an egg, last week’s bread, and an open jar of salsa, probably mouldy._

Looks like toast for dinner.

‘Where do you live?’ Even asks.

‘Oh, just over there,’ Isak says, pointing at the window of his flat. ‘Third floor.’

‘You’re kidding!’ he says. ‘I live fifteen minutes that way,’ he adds, gesturing towards Løkka. ‘What are your plans for dinner?’

‘I think, cheese toastie and beer. Maybe spinach and an egg on the side.’

‘Wow,’ Even says. ‘Wow. That is—horrendous. You call that a dinner?’

‘It’s got protein and carbohydrates and fat! What do you want from me?’

‘Look, seeing as you clearly suck at identifying let alone _making_ dinner,’ Even continues, ignoring Isak’s chagrin, ‘why don’t you swing by mine? I want you to meet Mutta, and also eat real food.’

‘What constitutes real food?’

‘I made curry last night. Yousef sent me some spices from Turkey so Mutta showed me how to make some Moroccan-style food. It’s really good,’ he says, his face alight with enthusiasm.

Isak shrugs, a gesture which he knows is a poor attempt at nonchalance at this stage, and concedes, ‘I mean, who am I to turn down free food?’

Even’s smile gets wider still, and he texts Isak the address, who agrees to head over in an hour, after he’s showered and gotten dressed.

‘Or not,’ Even adds with an eyebrow raise, and Isak feels his insides twist again. _What are we doing. What are we_ doing.

It’s in the shower that he takes time to think.

_Nothing can happen. Even isn’t available. And even if he was, we are not allowed to do anything. If we did, we’d lose our jobs._

It’s far too recently that Isak knows the threat of homelessness. He can’t go back there. He’s worked too hard to be stable and happy(ish). He can’t threaten that. He won’t.

\--

When he arrives at Even’s building, he finds the front door open. He walks straight inside, and heads up the two floors to flat 6, where he knocks. From the hallway, he can hear the distinct melody of Annie Lennox’s _Walking on Broken Glass_ blaring from inside the flat, so he knocks loudly, again.

He tries knocking again after a few minutes, but no response. As the song shifts into Cheryl Lynn’s _Got to be Real_ , Isak realises with a heartstopping certainty that Even is playing the Pride Classics playlist.

He takes out his phone and texts Even. _Am outside. Answer your door maybe?? I’m hungry_

After a little while, the door swings open, and Isak turns to let out a monologue of frustration at Even, but in the doorframe stands a tall, dark- and curly-haired, handsome man, with brown eyes, and a distinct dark scruff around the jawline that makes him look a little older than he is.

‘You must be Mutasim,’ Isak says, warmly.

‘Mutta is fine,’ he replies, bringing Isak into a handshake-then-one-armed hug, and closing the door behind them. ‘Nice to meet you, Isak. Your date is in the bathroom still because he’s a **_vain and ridiculous man_** ,’ Mutta yells at the door just before the archway to the kitchen.

‘Nothing vain about hygiene!’ Even yells back from inside the bathroom.

‘Hair gel has nothing to do with hygiene!’

That elicits no response, and Mutta smirks to himself as he leads Isak into the kitchen. Isak, however, is still stuck on the words ‘your date,’ and wonders with a brief moment of panic if that’s what this is.

He doesn’t dwell on it long, though, as Mutta removes the lid from a large and deep pan where a heavenly-smelling butternut and chicken tagine is bubbling slowly.

‘I’ve gone a bit off-script,’ Mutta explains, as he stirs some more garlic into the pan, ‘because we had coconut milk left over and so I decided to make coconut rice, which is more Thai than Moroccan, but whatever.’

Isak is drooling. The kitchen smells divine, and he takes a minute to take the homeliness of it all.

It’s so obvious that Mutta and Even are practically family, from the photos on the fridge, to the herbs they’re hanging to dry from the roof, to the paper garlands hanging from cupboard to cupboard. Every part of the room presents a coziness, a warmth that Isak feels immediately at home in. Not to mention the fact that Mutta then takes the lid off of the rice pan and the sweet smell of coconut lingers in the air alongside the spices from the tagine. Isak’s stomach growls.

Then they both hear the bathroom door open, and soon Even appears in the kitchen.

‘Oh, coconut rice? Nice one, Mutta,’ he says, humming appreciatively as Mutta hands him a spoon with a small sample. ‘Oh damn,’ he murmurs, ‘that’s good. Though maybe a little...’

‘Mint?’ Mutta interrupts, reaching for the bunch hanging next to the rosemary and basil.

‘Took the words right out of my mouth,’ Even smiles.

‘Coconut and mint in rice?’ Isak asks, dumbfounded.

Mutta laughs as he passes Even a handful of mint. ‘I know, it doesn’t sound conventional. Because it’s not. Even just likes to experiment.’

Isak shifts his gaze to Even, who’s chopping up the mint leaves on a wooden chopping board next to the hob. ‘Is that so?’ Isak asks, letting himself sound suggestive.

But Even just glances quickly at him and gives a thin-lipped smile in response. ‘Yep,’ he says.

Isak tries not to feel unsettled by that reply, but Even isn’t looking at him. Instead, Even turns to Mutta and asks something in Arabic. In turn, Mutta briefly offers an Arabic response before switching back to Norwegian.

‘So, Isak,’ Mutta says, ‘Even tells me you’re a fan of puns.’

‘Oh jesus,’ Isak replies, bringing a palm to his own face in preparation. ‘Please tell me you’re not—’

Mutta interrupts, ‘What do you get when you cross a joke with a rhetorical question?’

‘I don’t know, what do you—oh my _fucking_ god!’ he groans, bending at the waist as he cringes.

Mutta is laughing loudly, both hands on his stomach as he throws his head back. When Isak stands back up he joins in for a laugh or two despite himself, then looks to Even, who’s still standing at the hob, stirring mint into the rice. He hasn’t so much as cracked a smile.

\--

When they sit to eat, Isak barely pauses to politely wait for one of them to start, before he gets a forkful of tagine and shoves it in his mouth. Immediately the flavours pop and he almost moans in delight. It’s spicy, and smooth, and a little sweet. It’s perfection.

As he busily shovels food into his mouth, he notices Even’s reticence has gotten Mutta’s attention, too. He and Mutta share a silent glance of concern before Mutta clears his throat and says, ‘Good work, man. I think my mama would almost like it.’

Even smiles, but it’s still thin-lipped, and Isak wishes he knew how to make him laugh again.

‘You can add this to your repertoire once you figure out the right proportions. Maybe you can invite Johanne round next time, too,’ Mutta adds, sending Isak a conspiratorial wink.

But Isak’s brain is on a loop of _invite Johanne_ — _next time_ — _invite Johanne_ — _next time._ Even making dinner for Johanne. Johanne being invited over for dinner. Even and Johanne, eating dinner, together, in his house.

All at once, the reality crashes down on Isak as he pieces together the missing facts.

Johanne being unshowered his first day—Even’s strange reaction to seeing her—their stiff reactions since—Even’s text warning Isak against talking to her about his one-night stands—and Mutta’s comment just now—

‘You fucked Johanne the weekend before you started working for her?’ Isak blurts out.

Even closes his eyes and places his fork back on his plate. He leans back in his chair and opens his eyes, just to stare at his hands, which he’s fiddling with on his lap.

‘You were bound to figure it out sooner or later,’ he murmurs.

Mutta drops his knife with a loud clatter. ‘You hadn’t told him,’ he says, quietly, with implicit regret. ‘I—shit. Sorry that was really careless of me—’

‘I don’t mind him knowing,’ Even says, still staring at his hands. Then he slowly raises his gaze to meet Isak’s.

‘I wasn’t sure when to mention it,’ he continues. ‘I didn’t want you to feel weird at work.’

Isak, meanwhile, knows he can’t express the jealousy coursing through him, so instead elects to revert to what he does best.

‘Hey as long as I don’t walk in on you to boning in the archive room, it’s all the same to me.’

At once Mutta bursts into gleeful laughter and slams his palm down on the table in delight. ‘You should’ve heard her that night, Isak.’

‘Mutta,’ Even says in reproach.

Mutta raises one eyebrow at him in response, questioning, challenging him to elaborate. The tension between them is suddenly palpable to Isak, who wonders why Mutta is pushing this.

‘Either she was being pleasured to an extreme degree all night,’ Mutta says, ‘or she just really _strongly_ agreed with you on everything.’

At that, Even sinks further down into his seat and brings a hand to his face in embarrassment. Isak isn’t sure whether to laugh, for Mutta’s sake, or cry, for his own.

Even will never take another chance with a work colleague if he’s already risked the job by sleeping with the boss. Despite it happening before he started. And that realisation makes Isak want to excuse himself from this dinner and _run_ home to avoid the messed up situation he’s allowed himself to get stuck in.

He can’t have feelings for Even, because Even isn’t ready for a relationship. And he can’t have feelings for his co-worker, because it’s contractually forbidden. And he can’t believe he’s already in so deep.

His appetite is gone, and he pushes idly at a piece of chicken with his fork, trying to think of an appropriate response. Nothing comes to him.

Mutta picks up on the change in atmosphere, and shifts in his seat. ‘So,’ he begins, ‘Isak—you seeing anyone?’

Even, still slouched in his seat, and hiding behind his right palm, makes no attempt to disguise the swift kick he levels at Mutta’s shin under the table. ‘Give the man a break,’ he mumbles.

Paying no attention to this attack, Mutta smiles happily at Isak and goes on, ‘I bet you’ve got a trail of people begging you to date them.’

Isak smiles and tries to make it look genuine. Mutta deserves that, at least. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘let’s just say, not right now.’

‘Oh?’ Mutta asks, intrigued. ‘Not right now?’

‘Not really looking,’ Isak says, hoping that will kill the conversation.

But Mutta’s interest is piqued. ‘What’s your type?’ he asks, his eyes alight with mischief. ‘What do you look for, when you’re “ _looking_ ”?’

Isak shrugs. It’s not like he can say, “Just take a quick glance to your left, and … that’s it.” So he lies.

‘I don’t know. Depends on the guy.’

Mutta grins at that. ‘I have a friend,’ he says, suggestively. And Isak can already sense where he’s going with it.

‘I have a friend,’ Mutta repeats, as he leans back smugly in his chair, ‘called Peter.’

Even sits up then and sighs. ‘Mutta—’

At that, Mutta stops and turns to him, letting all cockiness wash away. For a moment Isak feels like he’s intruding on a private moment.

Then Mutta asks him something quietly in Arabic and Even bites his bottom lip. He glances quickly at Isak and then back at his hands. He mumbles something back, shrugs, and Mutta says something else—it sounds imploring, almost. Even smiles then, and nods.

Turning his attention back to Isak, Mutta goes on, ‘Peter is twenty-five, he’s just started a Masters at UiO in philosophy, and he asked me to stay on the lookout for single guys who might want a blind date.’

There it is. Somewhere, deep down, Isak knew it was coming. And as confused and hurt he is by the mess he’s put himself in with Even, the prospect of going on a real date is tempting. Aside from the disadvantage of it not being with Even, it’s a _real date_. And there’s no real consequences if it doesn’t work. And he’s fucking tired of being alone.

‘Peter, huh?’ Isak asks.

He glances at Even, who is busily eating up the last of his curry, eyes fixed on his plate. He looks unfazed. Disinterested, almost.

‘Peter Svendsen,’ Mutta says. ‘Tall, dark and handsome. His Dad is Italian. Apparently his dick is as thick as an aubergine.’

Isak can’t help but giggle at that, Mutta is so cheekily impish as he says it.

‘Alright, Mutta,’ Isak concedes, bringing his hands together. ‘Tell Peter he’s got a date on Saturday.’

Even glances at Isak and smiles for split second, before gathering up everyone’s plates and immediately washing them up in the sink.

Isak tries not to read into it. He tries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter sees Isak panic ahead of the date. And Even helps him pick an outfit. Regrets abound. But things will progress, I promise <3
> 
> kudos & comments mean the world. and i hope wherever you are, this story made you smile a little! sending you skam fans all my love. <3


	4. Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter sees: Even being hot-and-cold; a vors; Isak standing up for himself; The Date; and an impulsive decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is chock-a-block full of cuteandtwisted references and inspiration from her fics. Because honestly I'm sad she's not writing any new ones! But 21 fics is an impressive number, esp. when you're about to hit over a million words, like damn. What a queen. <3 
> 
> As far as I know, no cw necessary for this chapter. I hope you enjoy!

 

Isak leaves Even & Mutta’s flat around midnight. It’s snowing again, and he sneezes as he’s forced back out into the cold—the sting in his nose from being so warm to being _freezing_ cold is almost enough to make his eyes water. Though maybe his eyes are watery for other reasons.

As he steps out into the street, he quickly pulls his gloves on, and then picks out a song on his phone to listen to as he trudges home: but he can’t find anything that he wants. Then, as he passes a billboard near Schous plass, his gaze lingers on six posters for a _System of a Down_ concert, and he remembers with a strange fondness that he used to adore them while he was still at Nissen. He takes his phone out again and searches for one of his old favourite songs.

He’s hunched over as he walks down Kirkegårdsgata, and the snow is falling heavily, now. It looks jaundiced under the streetlamps. Isak looks up to see if he can make out any stars—nothing tonight. Of course. The snow.

Oslo is beautiful in the snow, breathtaking in the right light, but the long nights keep that too often hidden. It’s difficult to remember its elegance, though, when—as demonstrated by Isak nearly losing his footing on a patch of black ice—the snow is also a silent threat. It cloaks everything, muffles the city sounds, quite literally freezes the earth. Beautiful though it is, the winter colonises the city in lingering drifts, slushy dregs, and sharp ice. And Isak hates being cold more than ever.

The song now playing in his ears opens with a gentle riff, which immediately changes to heavy metal strumming and an aggressive drum beat, before a softly-sung lyric is similarly replaced by strained and angry vocals. It seems appropriate for the shifting blizzard.

Though it’s been years since he last heard it, he remembers every word, and mouths along to them as he pushes his hands further in his pockets, thinking only of what he had signed up for in just a few days’ time.

The date had been fixed for that Saturday. And the thought of having  to spend the intervening time in a basement with Even—who had acted weird all night—and Anders—who shouldn’t be in the basement in the first place—had Isak dreading the idea of going to work the next morning.

Not least because of Even’s strange behaviour.

After dinner, Mutta, Even and Isak had moved to the living room and shared some of the leftover beer, while Mutta offered to give Isak’s number to Peter. Having no other reason to say no, Isak gave him the go ahead, and within a minute or two Isak’s phone lit up with a notification.

_Halla Isak. Dette er Peter, jeg håper du er ledig på lørdag kveld ;)_

Mutta laughed happily as Isak read the message aloud, but Even stiffened.

‘I bet he’s already looked you up on Instagram and realised I set him up with a _hottie_ ,’ Mutta joked, giving Isak a gentle push on the arm. ‘I’ve never heard him sound so keen. Winky face and everything!’

Even huffed before taking a swig from his beer bottle. Mutta looked over at him and opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to think better of it. He looked back at Isak and asked, ‘What are you thinking?’

Isak smiled and gave a small shrug. ‘I don’t know. I’m new to this.’

‘What do you mean?’ Mutta asked. His smile was so bright against his skin, and his eyes so brown beneath his long curls. Isak briefly wondered if Peter could be as handsome as Mutta.

‘I’ve never been on a date before,’ Isak said casually. He wasn’t sure why he felt comfortable sharing this with _Even_ and the flatmate he only just met—but something about Mutta’s sincerity and charm made Isak want to be that honest. And some quieter part of him wanted Even to know it, too.

Even snapped to attention at that while Mutta screeched in delight. ‘First date _and_ first blind date!’ he cried happily, ‘this is fantastic. Oh, man. You guys are gonna have a blast. Peter is really chill, and you’re just his type, I think.’

Just as Mutta finished speaking, Isak’s phone buzzed again.

Another message from Peter:

_er det noe spesielt du kanskje liker å gjøre?_

Isak read it aloud, and Even scoffed.

‘Care to share?’ Mutta asked with amusement.

Even shrugged. And huffed again. Isak felt like he was watching someone else in Even’s body.

‘This guy asks someone out on a date by asking _them_ to plan it? Weak,’ Even said gruffly.

Isak couldn’t help but laugh at that—it was usually _his_ role to play the cynic. Even looked … odd in it. But though Mutta laughed along too, Even stayed coldly detached.

He seemed almost angry at times, to the point that Isak gave up trying to infer what was wrong.

‘I should head home,’ Isak announced abruptly, once the beer was finished. He felt he’d stayed the requisite amount of time to be polite. It had reached the point where he and Mutta were carrying the conversation and he was tired, in every sense.

‘Sure thing,’ Mutta said, standing up to give Isak a brief hug. ‘Hope the date goes well,’ he added with a wink.

Even jumped to his feet and gestured towards the hallway, following Isak out to the front door. Awkward though it was as he stood limply nearby while Isak put his shoes back on, it was at least something to indicate he wasn’t mad at Isak. Not that any of his behaviour made sense.

‘Thanks for dinner,’ Isak said, making cursory eye contact and reaching for the door. ‘See you at work.’

As Isak stepped out and was about to close the door behind him, he suddenly found himself being pulled into a hug. One second he was leaving, and the next, he was chest-to-chest with Even, and felt both of Even’s arms link around his lower back.

He didn’t know how to breathe, he didn’t know how to _think_ , just enveloped in the person he wanted the most, and unable to do anything about it. He wished he could just squeeze tighter like his body seemed to crave in that moment, that he could moan against Even’s collarbone and get lost in that feeling. The fact that Even sighed heavily as they embraced made Isak’s heart race.

But it only lasted a moment.

‘Get home safe,’ Even whispered, before stepping back and closing the door.

Isak shivers. He’s almost home now, and the memory of that touch lingers, so much so that Isak can’t decide if it’s welcome or not.

He rounds the corner to Sofienberggata and relaxes at the sight of his front door. The song is still playing on repeat.

\--

** Even **

hei

by any chance can you give me mutta’s number

I forgot to ask for it

sure thing

why?

because I’m meeting this peter guy in like

twenty four hours

and I didn’t think to ask mutta for his last name

or his interests or job or anything

he told you his last name though

peter svendsen

did you forget already?

that’s not promising

i’ve been busy!

how could anyone forget the tagline

‘dick thick as an aubergine’

not what I had in mind  
when I was requesting further information

thing is

mutta is at mosque right now

damn of course

friday

anything I can help with?

uh no it’s chill

convincing as ever

have you met the guy?

no not in person

what does that mean

…i know nothing  
about what he’s like

in person

so you stalked him online

I casually browsed the peter svendsens that  
Mutta is friends with.

helpfully there’s only one

and what’s your verdict?

idk. Looks like the kind of guy who won’t  
plan a date himself yknow

Lol that really riles you doesn’t it

it’s not hard to plan a date

just pick a time + place + activity

we’re not splitting the atom here

in his defence it’s a blind date

so he has no idea what I might be into

I think he was just being considerate

or lazy.

it’s January, so no outdoor plans obviously

it’s a blind date, so public spaces only

that leaves us: cinema, theatre, café, restaurant, bar

this is not difficult!

well he’s already outdone you, pal

?

I told him I was up for whatever

he texted me an hour ago to say  
he’d bought tickets to see _Er dette alt_

you remember I told you about it? It’s the play  
that’s on in Norske Teatret right now

not only that but he booked a table  
for us at this thai place

and he’s also suggested that we  
hit up that gay club Elsker after the play,  
 if we feel like making a night of it

Sounds like a good night?

he’s put a ton of effort in already

and all of it is stuff I wanna do

I’m glad you’re excited about it

it sounds like the stars have aligned

I hope you have a fun night

there’s another thing actually

?

what do people wear on dates Even

??

esp in this situation, like, I don’t know him

aside from work clothes and workout clothes

and sweatpants

what is in your wardrobe?

boxers

there you go, outfit planned

next question

EVEN

maybe unconventional to show up to  
the theatre in just your tighty whiteys  
but I bet Peter would be into it

ha ha ha

you’re so fucking funny

honestly though

wear what you like

what you feel comfortable in

thank you

 for the most useless advice

I’ve ever received

in my entire life

will I just come over  
tomorrow before your date and  
bring my sage advice?

and beer?

…

you don’t have to do that

it’s chill

you sound like most of what you need  
is just to talk it out

so, I’ll come over, we can have a beer to kill the nerves

and I’ll send you on your way to Mr Aubergine

I will ignore that bait

in favour of being the bigger person

and saying, genuinely,  
that would make my day

no problem

you know what makes my day?

idk

what?

the rotation of the sun

never mind

don’t ever speak to me again

I know you love it really

what was it about my previous  
message that was ambiguous

I’ll come over at 6

with extra beer

as apology

the beer can come over

you can NOT

such a sweet friend <3

why are you like this

you wouldn’t love me any other way

who says I even like you

reasonable point

 

\--

 

Even is due any minute, while Isak is picking out old tshirts from a pile of miscellany and wondering when he ever dressed up before.

And he’s still not sure why Even is so keen to help. He doesn’t understand Even’s motivations. One minute he’s ogling Isak’s ass while they stretch, the next he’s sulking while Mutta sets him up on a blind date, and then he’s offering romantic advice and setting time aside to come and help Isak pick an outfit?

The ambiguity is maddening. But Isak pushes the thought away, because he doesn’t have time to dwell on it while trying to find something he can wear.

After finding a pair of grey skinny jeans that he’d rolled up in a ball and forgotten about, he wonders if they might do. He tries to remember when the last time he wore them was—and then it all comes back.

The first night Eskild brought him out. For which he also insisted on going shopping with Isak, and forced him to try on said jeans, with a maroon button-down. _Wait, where is that—_

Isak decides to start with the jeans, and see if they fit. As he puts his foot through the right pant-leg he feels just _how_ skinny the damn things are, and soon finds himself hopping up and down to try and get them around his waist. Eventually he has to lie down on his back on the bed and shimmy into them. When he stands back up, he is a little out of breath, but as he looks in the mirror he does think they do some justice. And thankfully still (kind of) fit.

He returns to the wardrobe to seek out that maroon button-down, but, at that moment, the doorbell rings.

Too distracted to think much about it, he runs to the door to buzz Even in, and then back to his room to find that shirt. But there’s no sign of it. Not in his drawers, not on the hangers, not in the Pile of Stuff—and then there’s a knock at the door.

 _Damnit_.

‘I’m shirtless,’ Isak shouts. He probably doesn’t have to—his flat’s front door leads into a tiny entryway which is really just a token feature before it opens to his bedroom, after which there’s a door into the kitchen/living room, because of how weirdly the building was arranged when split into apartments.

‘I’m trying to find this…damn…thing—’ he grunts as he burrows through his wardrobe.

He hears Even chuckle from the other side of the wall.

‘I think I can handle the sight of your bare chest, Isak,’ he says, amused. ‘Don’t you want beer?’

Isak sighs and sits back on his haunches. Even has a point there.

‘Coming,’ Isak says, as he gets to his feet.

It’s as he spans the distance of two meters to the front door that he realises Even has never been inside his flat before. That Even is about to be in his bedroom. That he really hadn’t considered the consequences of this entire scenario before he agreed to it.

It’s also as he walks to the door that he spies, under the chair pushed into the corner of his room, the maroon shirt.

‘Aha!’ he says, happily, diving for it. Once he extricates it from its hiding place he sniffs it to see if it’s wearable. Upon inspection, he decides it is.

‘Found a shirt?’ Even guesses, still waiting on the other side of the door.

‘Yes!’ Isak announces, before finally getting to the front door and unlocking it.

Even is there, all six-foot-two of him, and _goddamnit_ , Isak thinks, _he’s wearing those glasses again_ , and a denim jacket with a small pan pin on it. Isak can’t help himself, he looks from Even’s face, now framed so well by those specs, down to his jacket, the white shirt beneath it, and then the black denim jeans that cling to his legs.

‘Are you the one going out on a date or am I?’ Isak asks, jokingly. The implication is clear. Isak almost takes it back, but then Even raises one eyebrow and smirks at him.

Then Even, too, lets his gaze travel from Isak’s unkempt hair, down to his exposed collarbones, the rest of the maroon button-down, to the skin-tight grey jeans, and his bare feet.

He lets out a long, low whistle. ‘Peter is a lucky guy,’ he says.

Isak rolls his eyes. ‘Have you come just to rile me up or did you at least bring beer?’ He tries to look displeased, standing with his arms crossed in front of his chest and his shoulders back.

But Even seems different again right now. He doesn’t beam a smile at Isak’s grumpiness, he bites his lip and gives Isak another slow once-over. Though he’s still standing in the hallway outside Isak’s flat, he doesn’t seem in any rush to get in. His eyes just slowly move from Isak’s lips to his neck to his chest and back again. The deliberation in his gaze makes Isak feel hot, in every sense, but it’s the fact that he just _stands_ there, silent, except for what he is _screaming_ through his stare.

‘I mean it,’ Even says quietly. ‘He’s a lucky guy, getting to spend the night with you.’

Isak suddenly doesn’t know what to do. He’s forgotten why Even was here, what plans they had, where he was supposed to go next. All he can focus on is the way his blood is rushing through him, the fact that he’s desperate now to pull Even in by his jacket collar and throw him on the bed.

But at that moment his phone buzzes on the bed and he briefly wonders who it could be— _Even’s lips, fuck, have they always looked like that_ —before he remembers that he is going on a date tonight with Peter, the thai food, the Norske Teatret, the club maybe if they’re up for it. And that Peter is probably the one who just sent him a text.

The noise seems to snap Even out of the bubble they were in, too, and he reverts to his usual self. ‘Are you gonna let me in or not?’ he asks, teasingly, waving the bag of beer in his left hand up and down.

Isak steps back to retrieve his phone from the mess on his bed, and waves Even in to follow him. He hears Even push off his shoes inside the front door, and the rustle of his jacket as he pulls that off too.

‘There’s no coat rack,’ Isak explains, still searching for his phone, ‘just drop it on the chair.’

‘You sure?’ Even asks, ‘Looks like a complex system you’ve got in operation here.’

Isak sighs instead of answering and is rewarded with the sound of Even’s laugh. He finds his phone, finally, and sure enough, it’s Peter.

‘He better not be cancelling,’ Even says, defensively.

‘He just sent me the address for the restaurant,’ Isak says. He types back a quick message to thank him, and _see you later_ , and then turns to Even. ‘What is your problem with this guy?’

Even shrugs and purses his lips, looking around Isak’s room inquisitively. With a fond kind of exasperation Isak realises Even won’t explain his dislike—though Isak thinks he knows why, he _hopes_ he knows why, he hopes he’s _right_ —and so he invites him instead to come through to the living room.

‘This is a funny kind of set up,’ Even observes as they walk through the bedroom into the kitchen and living area.

‘At least it’s got a cheap-ish rent and a nice view,’ Isak explains as he gestures to the windows. It’s pitch black outside, of course, but the streetlamps illuminate the closest parts of Sofienberg park.

‘Oh wow,’ Even says, as he leans into the far window near the couch. ‘I bet this is stunning in daylight.’

‘It’s got its perks,’ Isak sighs as he falls backwards into the sofa. Even turns to look at him sprawled out, and though Isak’s eyes are closed he still raises a hand to Even in expectation for a beer.

‘Sorry, did you want something?’ Even asks, barely keeping the laughter in.

Isak makes a grabby motion with his outstretched hand and whines. His eyes are still closed so he waits patiently for Even to do his bidding.

What he doesn’t expect is Even’s hand to slide gently into his own. Each of Even’s long fingers touch his palm and then curl, interlinking their hands and caressing softly.

Isak is afraid to open his eyes, but does so, slowly, wondering what he’s going to see on Even’s face when he does.

But then Even yanks him up off the couch with no warning and slaps him playfully on the butt.

‘Your flat, you’re hosting. I’m the guest,’ he says cheekily, before flopping back on the couch and extending a hand for Isak to grace with a beer.

Isak’s heart is beating fast, so fast. He feels like he’s just been winded.

He has to try to catch up with the fact that Even wasn’t holding his hand just then, he was just getting Isak off the couch. But the mixed signals are driving him wild. Why was Even ogling him as they stretched yesterday, and then keeping his distance at dinner? Why was he flirting with him on the threshold and then bantering with him on the couch? Why is he so forward in one minute and then cold the next?

Isak begins to feel the familiar surge of anger in him at being the passive party always. The one who lets things happen to him. The one who is always left behind.

He’s back in the grey area. Waiting, hoping, wishing. And he’s sick to death of it.

Even notices the change in Isak’s face and stands back up, reaching a hand out to Isak’s arm. ‘Hey—is everything ok?’

Isak balls his hands into fists and takes a long deep inhale. He doesn’t want to get angry at Even. He just wants a direct answer. He just wants to be the one in control for once.

‘Listen,’ he begins, and he already regrets it a little. The tone of his voice betrays exactly how frustrated he is.

Even retracts his hand and looks like he’s bracing himself for a fall.

Staring at his own feet, Isak frowns and continues, ‘This is … this is kind of awkward to bring up. But. Sometimes… the way we interact is a real liability because of that part of our contract that stipulates a strictly professional relationship between colleagues.’

He clears his throat and wills himself to be more direct. This isn’t about the job. This is about Isak’s feelings, goddamnit.

‘I—I think there’s a lot of … unexplained … somethings … between us,’ Isak continues, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks now at being both so blunt and so vague. ‘And that’s fine. It’s natural. It’s kind of unavoidable for two people who work in such close quarters and who get on so well.’

He can’t hear Even breathe. He wonders if his words are making Even literally hold his breath.

‘But sometimes,’ he goes on, digging his fingernails into his palms, _forcing_ out the words, ‘you are extremely forward with me … which really risks our jobs … but then at the same time you back off, and I feel like … I don’t know, I feel like I’m being tricked somehow. I know you don’t intend it that way, but it’s difficult and confusing for me to get such mixed signals alongside inconsistent behaviour.’

Isak lets out a long sigh, then. The weight off his shoulders is a welcome release—though his heart is still beating against his ribs and he is terrified of what Even is going to say or do now, he is so relieved to have finally stood up for himself.

‘I’ve been making allowances for the fact that you are naturally an impulsive person,’ Isak says gently, ‘but like with what happened just now—you being flirty and suggestive and then backing off—it confuses me. You know? Especially because you already said you’re not looking for anything right now. And I… I consider you one of the closest people to me, Even, so I don’t want things to get complicated. So, yeah. There. I guess I said it.’

He realises immediately he could have ended that better, but it’s the best he can do for now. Hesitantly, he raises his head to look back up at Even.

Even’s brows are furrowed, and he’s nervously fiddling with his pockets. But he’s nodding. He looks embarrassed, but he’s nodding.

‘You’re right,’ he says, quietly, before he meets Isak’s gaze. ‘I’ve been really hot-and-cold with you, and it’s not ok. I’m glad you called me out on it.’

Isak feels strangely embarrassed now, too. It’s one thing to have feelings for someone in private—it’s something else entirely to admit them out loud, and then have them acknowledged.

‘Friends?’ Even asks, hope lacing his features.

The moment is so vulnerable, Isak can’t stand it.

‘Nah,’ Isak says, ‘I can’t fucking stand your dad jokes, so. You can leave now.’

Even laughs, but he’s still nervous, still unsure of how welcome he is. Isak rolls his eyes and pulls him into a hug. ‘Of course, friends,’ he mumbles into Even’s neck.

‘Well then,’ Even says, his breath stealing along Isak’s ear. ‘Can I say, as an unbiased friend, this outfit is great, and you obviously did not need my help whatsoever.’

‘Liar,’ Isak says quietly. And he knows that he shouldn’t be so sweet with Even when he just told him to back off. But he can’t help himself. When they touch, he has to be tender.

‘Liar?’ Even whispers back.

‘I needed you to bring me beer,’ Isak jokes. It’s a weak attempt at deflection. But Even buys it.

‘Of course,’ Even says, as he brings a hand to brush through Isak’s hair. ‘Anytime.’

\--

The Thai food is good. It really is. Isak can’t remember the last time he had Thai food, or the last time he ate out at a restaurant, or ever eating Thai food this good.

Peter is great. He’s talkative, and warm, and confident. Isak understands why he and Mutta might get on. Apparently they met at the gym. And Isak can see the evidence of that in Peter’s shoulders, his arms, his hands. Which he has spent a great deal of the night ogling.

He’s exactly as Mutta described. Tall, dark, handsome. Isak can see the Italian heritage in Peter’s black curls and brown eyes and olive skin, and the fact that there’s an ever-so-slight accent in his Norwegian. It’s endearing. It’s definitely attractive. He tries valiantly not to think of aubergines.

And Peter is clearly interested in Isak. He made no secret of checking him out as he walked in to the restaurant, and he’s laid compliment after compliment on Isak since he sat down. Isak is a little flustered under the attention but he rallies and makes a point of flirting back just as much. Peter is a hot guy who wants to flirt with him—Isak is not going to turn that down.

But.

When they walk to Norske Teatret and Peter casually slings an arm around Isak’s shoulders, and quietly asks, ‘Is this ok?’—Isak says, ‘Yeah, it’s ok’—Isak has a plunging feeling in his stomach. Like this isn’t entirely what he wants.

He ignores it. Because he’s out on a date with a hot guy who’s planned their whole night, and wants to make a show of being on a date, and Isak wants him to make a show of it, too.

Once the play gets going, Isak momentarily forgets all about the date and where he is, and what’s worrying him. For two blissful hours he’s in a different world, where drama and tensions rise into a fever pitch that’s released in a plot twist-and-climax: by the time the audience gets to their feet to give a standing ovation, Isak feels like a different person. While he and Peter walk out of the theatre, he is still thinking like he’s in the world of the play, like he’s looking at his own surroundings with new eyes.

‘So,’ Peter says playfully, ‘Can I interest you in some queer frivolity in a dank and glitterified underground nightclub?’

Isak takes a moment to catch up with present day reality. Nightclub. Peter. _The date_. His mind returns to Even in an unwelcome and bizarre moment of longing but he pushes that aside.

‘Show the way,’ he says, trailing a finger deliberately along Peter’s forearm.

Peter takes hold of Isak’s hand as they cross Kristian IVs gate, and through towards the courtyard and fountain in Sehestedsgate. Just before they get to the fountain, Isak sees the smokers and lingerers that portend the queer club, and after a quick chat with the bouncer, Peter leads him inside.

\--

‘I’m having a really good time,’ Peter says sincerely, smiling at Isak in a way that’s both cheeky and flirtatious.

Isak can’t help but agree. It’s eleven pm now. He’s sitting in a booth next to Peter, and they’ve been talking for nearly an hour about the World Cup and their favourite teams and their ideal holidays and their worst nights out, and spent most of that time laughing and touching.

‘I’m glad Mutta set us up,’ Isak says, and he means it. He doesn’t know if it’ll go much past tonight, but he’s glad anyway. Peter looks at him like he’s the only person in the room, and it’s uncomplicated. He doesn’t have to think about what happens next. It’s anyone’s guess. And Isak loves that simple freedom. He loves that there are no consequences.

‘Mutta deserves a prize, I think,’ Peter jokes, as he scoots another bit closer to Isak, close enough that Isak knows he’s going to try to kiss him soon. And Isak also knows he’s going to do nothing to dissuade him from that.

‘He certainly drove a good sales pitch,’ Isak says mischievously, and realises he’s tipsy. He’s definitely tipsy to be bringing _this_ up.

‘Oh?’ Peter asks, his interest piqued. ‘What sold you then?’

‘The fact that your dick is apparently as thick as an aubergine,’ Isak says, before bursting out laughing. Peter joins in immediately.

‘That’s sweet of him to say,’ Peter concedes, after they’ve both calmed down. ‘I wonder where he got that idea from, jeez.’

‘Who cares?’ Isak says. ‘It got me here, didn’t it?’ He takes another swig from his beer bottle, though he knows he shouldn’t, really. He’s getting drunk. And by the look in Peter’s eye, he’s getting drunk, too.

‘Yeah,’ Peter says, ‘thank god for that. Because I had no idea what I was going to do with you. I saw your picture online and immediately started sweating.’

Isak throws his head back and laughs. Then, suddenly, Peter’s hand is on his face and his thumb is pressing along his bottom lip.

‘You’re so pretty,’ he says, absend-mindedly. ‘I’m so glad you were up for this.’

‘Of course,’ Isak says, and as he talks, his lip brushes against Peter’s thumb.

‘If it weren’t for Even I never would’ve known what to do,’ Peter jokes, ‘so he deserves a prize, too.’ Peter is looking intently at Isak’s lips now and is about to say something else, but Isak pulls  back.

‘Even? What did Even do?’ he asks.

Peter doesn’t seem fazed by Isak’s withdrawal. He smiles drunkenly and explains, ‘I was asking Mutta what he thought you’d be into, and he suggested I just text his flatmate Even because he works with you and might know better. So I did. He told me about the play and the Thai restaurant nearby and suggested Elsker because it’s small and cosy.’

Isak can barely process this. The whole time he was operating on the assumption that Peter was somehow serendipitous, that his instincts for what Isak would like were an inexplicable and natural phenomenon. Now that the illusion was stripped away, Isak was off-guard, reeling from the uncertainty.

And suddenly everything falls into place in Isak’s head.

Even knew that this was going to be Isak’s first real date. And when Peter reached out to him, he decided to make it the ideal date for them, and told Peter exactly what to do. And when Isak reached out to him, he offered to come over to talk him down and get him buzzed for the night. Mutta might have set them up but Even made it perfect.

Despite being moody and unpredictable and cold, Even went out of his way to make sure Isak had a good night. Despite Isak confronting him about his aberrant behaviour, Even never mentioned the fact that he’d gone to such lengths for Isak. And Isak suspected he never would have let on, either.

‘And we are cosy,’ Peter continues, ‘aren’t we?’

Peter leans in and gives Isak a kiss on the neck, right below his ear. Then he nibbles on it a bit.

But Isak’s head is full of Even. The look on his face when Mutta offered to match Isak and Peter. The sound of his laugh when Isak flipped him off for another terrible pun. The feeling of his hands in Isak’s hair when they hugged. The smell of his cologne. And the fact that he took care of Isak though there was nothing in it for him, though Isak had drawn a line in the sand between them and demanded he not cross it.

‘Wanna dance?’ Peter asks.

Isak’s heart contains a blizzard, and he’s lost in it. He looks into Peter’s eyes, and they’re so close, and so brown, and so inviting, but his heart is beating for Even.

 _Our jobs_.

He remembers with a sinking desperation that his feelings are a moot point. And that Peter is right next to him, offering him all the attention he desires.

He doesn’t feel like he has an option.

‘Of course,’ Isak says, flirtatiously. He stands up and walks to the dancefloor confidently, knowing Peter will follow. And that at least is a welcome change. He is the one in front for once.

The song playing is a techno remix of something Isak vaguely recognises, but it’s abruptly switched for a song he knows well—a laughably absurd song, which Peter doesn’t hesitate to sing loudly along to.

‘ _I’m too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy it hurts_!’ he yells, and grabs hold of Isak’s arms, though Isak is firmly shaking his head against his palms in second-hand embarrassment.

‘ _I’m too sexy for your party, too sexy for your party, the way I’m disco-dancing_!’ Peter shouts happily, as he sways closer to Isak and winds his arms around Isak’s waist.

Isak relents and Peter pulls them close until they are wound together, hips to hips, chest to chest, and Isak knows what’s coming next, and he doesn’t know now if he really wants it.

Swaying them from side to side in beat to the song, Peter bends his knees and fits their legs together, starting to slowly grind, and holding Isak by his waist and neck. Isak can tell this is a move he’s used many times before. And when Peter leans in to place his lips on Isak’s, he tilts his head up.

It’s good. It’s really good. Peter is a good kisser, starting just with lips on lips, and then occasional open-mouth kisses, with a hint of tongue once they fit into a rhythm. Not like most of the sloppy wet tongue-fucks Isak’s been subject to in situations much like this.

Peter kisses him slow, and pushes both hands into Isak’s hair, and the song changes to the aptly titled _Don’t You Want Me Baby_ , and Isak’s heart starts to hurt. The touch is nothing like Even’s. And he realises with terrible clarity that deep down he’s been imagining it was.

He pulls back and their lips part in a wet pop. Peter looks starry-eyed and happy. ‘Damn,’ he says, leaning their foreheads together. ‘Is it presumptuous of me to ask what you’re doing this time next week?’

Isak lets out a long breath, and curses himself for leading Peter on. For a guy who did everything right, down to the letter, it’s so unfair that it has to end like this.

‘I—I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I thought I could do this, but I really can’t.’ He knows as the words leave his lips that they’re painful, cliché, _weak_.

But Peter doesn’t even flinch. He takes a moment to process the words and then nods, and takes his hands away from Isak’s face.

‘This was still a great date,’ he mumbles, shy in a way Isak hadn’t expected.

‘It was,’ Isak says, and tries to make it sound as fervently sincere as possible.

When Peter insists on calling him a taxi home, Isak can’t fight him. He really is sweet.

‘You really are sweet,’ Isak hears himself say. _Fuck I am really drunk_.

Peter smiles, but it’s a sad smile. He gives Isak a quick kiss on the cheek and whispers, ‘So are you, you know,’ right before Isak gets in the taxi.

\--

Isak gets home and it’s not even midnight. _Eskild would have a meltdown_ , he thinks wryly. But a small part of him misses Eskild’s rants.

He gets into an old tshirt, brushes his teeth, and rolls into bed, closing his eyes and willing the night to just be over already.

But his mind is still racing. The way Even looked in his denim jacket and jeans, the sincerity in his voice when he promised to stop being so hot-and-cold, the line of his legs when he’s stretching his hips, the smell of his skin—but above all of that, the simple fact that Even cares about him so much that he orchestrated the entire date.

And that’s the rub. _Even cares about me_. _There’s no way around it. He genuinely cares_.

Isak can barely breathe. The way Even smiles at him, the comments he makes about Isak’s attractiveness, the stares while they cool down from a run—there’s no way around it.

It’s 2.30am.

Isak is writhing in bed. He’s a mess. He’s overwhelmed and desperate and he feels like he can’t bear not seeing Even right now. _Right now_.

But he can’t just show up at Even’s place in the middle of the night. He can’t just leave his flat, especially after ditching the best date he could have hoped for, and rock up at Even’s door and tell him how he really feels. Tell him, _Yeah this could ruin everything. But fuck the contract_. _I think I’m in love with you_. He can’t imagine the satisfaction of it, he can’t imagine how it would feel to have Even wrap him in his arms and kiss Peter right off his lips, to kiss him senseless.

He can’t imagine it. He has to know.

And before he knows it, he’s at Even’s door.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will they ever kiss? who's to know
> 
> next chapter picks up where this one leaves off... i know, i'm a menace. but next chapter also sees a lot more Linn, which i'm looking forward to, i hope you are too <3
> 
> also: Er dette alt isn't a real play (as far as I know), it's just my favourite Cezinando song. Norske Teatret is right across from Elsker, though--and yeah I 100% stole Even's plan from actual real-life Henrik's date plan for him & Tarjei. (but I don't think they went to Elsker after!!)
> 
> how many times is she going to focus on Even's hands, am i right (endlessly. brace yourselves)
> 
> sorry for the slow burn (not sorry, but pls don't hate me, they will get there)
> 
>  
> 
> \--
> 
> Translations of Norwegian:
> 
> Halla Isak. Dette er Peter, jeg håper du er ledig på lørdag kveld ;)  
> = Halla Isak. This is Peter, I hope you are available on Saturday night;)
> 
> er det noe spesielt du kanskje liker å gjøre?  
> = Is there something special you might like to do?
> 
> \--
> 
> kudos, comments, every little thing you do is magic. <3


	5. We can't kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens after Isak arrives unannounced at Even's door at 3am

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you may have noticed the rating has changed. that is all i will mention for now. <3

 

Isak is still standing outside Even’s place. It’s sub-zero temperatures, which he feels keenly now, seeing as he unthinkingly pulled on only sweatpants and a loose jumper over his sleepshirt before he ran out of his flat. He’d have forgotten shoes except for the terrible cold that swept through him when he opened the door into the hallway—so he pulled on his heavy boots, and a hat and gloves, with a rapidity that he hadn’t experienced since his days of scrubbing into the ER.

But here he is, after half-running half-slipping his way to Even’s place at nearly 3am on Sunday morning. And now that he’s at Even’s door, he’s having second thoughts.

Even is probably asleep. He probably watched a movie (or skyped Yousef or read or whatever other myriad of normal things that might usually happen on a Saturday night) before going to bed at a reasonable hour and forgetting all about Isak and the date. Right now, Even is very likely mid-way through a REM cycle, dead to the world, happy in his dreams. And Isak is standing on the doorstep wondering why on earth he let himself do this.

But though he feels awkward and self-conscious and deeply unsure of this decision—he has to act now. He knows it in his gut. If he doesn’t act now, he’ll never have the courage to do it. He’ll go to work on Monday and tell Even a half-truth about the date and they’ll never acknowledge what really happened behind the scenes.

And Isak can’t stand it. His body is trembling with as much resolve to admit his feelings as it is trembling with the cold. And the longer he dawdles on the doorstep the less likely he is to take control for once, and the more likely he is to get hypothermia. So, with a renewed sense of certainty, he buzzes Even’s apartment.

The time draws out in an interminable silence as he waits for the door to open. But a minute passes, two minutes, three—and still nothing happens.

He takes a deep breath and buzzes again, keeping his thumb pressed on the button for at least six seconds this time. Then he takes out his phone and checks the time – _3.04am_. He considers calling Even to make sure he’s awake. And then the fear returns.

 _Call him? Seriously? This was all a terrible idea. This was so stupid. What the hell are you_ —but the shrill buzz that interrupts his thoughts announces that Even is awake. Even is awake and has let him into the building.

Quickly, Isak steps into the building and escapes from the cold. He can just about feel his toes, but his thighs and fingers are absolutely numb, so much so that the heat inside is almost painful on his ice-cold skin. He takes another deep breath—to warm up a little this time—and makes the journey upstairs.

When he arrives at the door, he pauses for a moment and realises this is the last time. This, right here, is the point of no return. And he screws his eyes closed, balls his hands into fists, and resolves to be honest and assertive for once. Regardless of whether or not it makes a shambles of the rest of his life. He feels sure that he has to see Even, he has to talk to him, he has to _know_.

He knocks. Once, twice, three times. And he tries to breathe deliberately, deeply. He tries to remember that this is important, but it’s not the end of the world if it goes badly. He deserves this act of selfishness.

The door opens. It’s a slow, hesitant movement and Isak’s eyes move from his feet to those revealed in front of him, and he looks up.

‘Mutta?’ he asks, incredulous.

Somehow in the last hour he completely forgot Mutta lived there. In his head, he’d automatically envisaged Even to open the door, to light up at seeing Isak’s face, and then to just bring him inside in his arms.

But Mutta is standing in his fleece pyjamas on the other side of the threshold, pillow creases on his face, his eyes barely open, looking at Isak in profound confusion.

‘Isak?’

And the resolve, the determination, the _force of will_ that drove Isak here has all of a sudden evaporated.

‘Is everything ok?’ Mutta asks, slightly more awake, and more worried, now.

‘Yeah,’ Isak says, but his voice is shot. ‘I—I know I’ve just appeared, unannounced, at your door in the middle of the night, but I’m not in danger or in trouble or anything. I … I, um…’

‘Oh god,’ Mutta says, his brows drawn together in concern, ‘did something bad happen with Peter?’

‘No!’ Isak says, falling apart now upon realising how _awful_ this looks, how much he’s worrying someone he barely knows. ‘I just. I need to see Even. I know he’s probably asleep but—it can’t… **I** can’t wait.’

He can’t explain to Mutta why, so he _wills_ him to somehow intuitively understand.

The pause Mutta makes at that is considerable. He gazes pensively at Isak, his eyes seemingly trying to infer just from Isak’s expression alone what’s going on. After a few moments, he seems to find something there that makes up his mind: he nods, and moves back to let Isak inside.

‘I’ll wake him,’ Mutta whispers, stepping over to Even’s room. Before he goes in, Isak says as loudly as he can while still whispering, ‘Thank you, Mutasim.’

Mutta turns his head to meet Isak’s eyes, smiles kindly, and nods again, walking into Even’s room, into plunging darkness.

Faintly, Isak can hear Mutta rustle the covers and call to Even to wake up. It takes a good minute or two—which Isak spends undoing his heavy boots and taking off all his winter accessories, rubbing his hands together to get some blood back into them—and then Mutta reappears.

‘He’s up,’ Mutta says quietly. ‘I told him you’re here, and everything is fine, so he’s not worried. That being said, he’s barely conscious, so…’

Isak nods in response, rolling his hands inside his cuffs and trying to find the courage he had five minutes ago to just walk into Even’s room and talk to him. Then Mutta reaches out to him.

‘Whatever it is,’ he says gently, ‘he’ll want to hear it.’

He pats Isak on the shoulder, then walks into his own room without another word.

Isak is left at Even’s door, still fiddling with his shirt cuffs and wondering if he can still make a run for it. But aside from his pride and embarrassment, everything else in him is _screaming_ to stay. So he takes one final breath and enters Even’s bedroom for the first time.

It’s pitch black inside, but with the dim light from the hallway, he can make out the shape of Even’s bed, and the shape of Even under the covers on top of it. From what he can see, Even is propped up with pillows but still mostly horizontal, an arm slung across his face.

He hovers by the opposite side of the bed, tilting from foot to foot, wondering if Even is awake or if he needed to wake him up again. Then Even’s arm moves, and he seems to rouse.

‘Even,’ Isak says, without thinking, ‘are—are you awake?’

Even moves a little, pushes himself more upright, and then leans over to his bedside table and turns the lamp on. It fills the room with a warm amber light, and Even turns back to see Isak, still hovering.

‘Isak?’ he asks, and his voice is so deep and rough from sleep that Isak has to consciously stop himself from going to him immediately. ‘I—fuck. I thought I was dreaming.’

Isak does not know how to respond to that. He can’t comprehend it. So he deflects.

‘You dream about random people showing up in your bedroom at ass o’clock in the morning?’

Even shakes his head. ‘Don’t joke,’ he says, quietly, ‘Something’s up. If it’s important enough for you to ditch Peter and come here at this hour, it deserves to be talked about seriously.’

 _If only you knew,_ Isak thinks sadly.

‘You wanna sit?’ Even asks, gesturing to the bed. Isak shifts on his feet again and wonders if he should stay long enough to get comfortable. But he wants to be closer to Even. So his heart wins out, and he sits up against the headboard, tilted slightly to face Even.

They sit in silence for a few moments until Even says, ‘Should I ask about the date? Or… do you not want to talk about it?’

Isak shrugs, staring at his hands as he fidgets with them idly. But he frowns at himself, knowing that it is up to him to explain his presence. To be honest for once.

‘It was perfect,’ he says, softly, ‘it was the perfect date.’

Even lets out a breath and makes a small sound of agreement. ‘I’m glad,’ he says, and it sounds sincere. He always sounds so sincere. And right now it’s making Isak’s heart hurt.

‘But you knew that already,’ Isak continues. ‘You knew it was the perfect date for me. So.’

Even pauses, visibly trying to decode Isak’s words. ‘I—’

‘He told me it was your doing,’ Isak says. He tries not to let any bitterness bleed into his voice; he’s not sure how successful he is. ‘You told him exactly what to do to make it the best date it could be.’

Another silence settles. Isak shifts in the bed, and turns to sit right in front of Even, leaning into his personal space. ‘Why?’ he asks, bending forward, trying to get as close to Even’s eyes as he can. ‘Why’d you do that for me?’

Even fixes his eyes closed and ducks his head down. He sighs, runs a hand through his hair and slowly returns his gaze to Isak. ‘I don’t think I should answer that,’ he says at last.

‘Why?’

‘Because barely twelve hours ago you asked me to stop being hot-and-cold with you. And so I’m trying to keep it strictly professional. Which…unfortunately…means I can’t answer that.’ He looks so torn, so conflicted as he explains himself.

And Isak, for the first time, sees right through him.

With his renewed courage, Isak shuffles forward until his knees are bracketing Even, and he doesn’t miss the hitch in Even’s breath as he does so. But he doesn’t stop there. He sits back until he’s resting on his haunches, on Even’s legs. Even, surprised by this sudden contact, stares at Isak like he’s just done something outrageous. Isak realises he has.

Isak brings his hands to Even’s chest. Under his palm he feels how Even’s heart is beating out a hard pattern against his ribs, and it makes Isak confident in a way that he hadn’t expected.

‘What are you doing,’ Even says, but it’s not a question. It sounds like he’s saying _Don’t stop, whatever you’re doing, don’t stop._

‘I’m sorry for being so blunt with you earlier,’ Isak says instead, his hands gently spreading and pushing into Even’s chest. He almost barely registers he’s doing it. He just needs to feel him, and Even arches into it, his breath stuttering and heaving with every touch. ‘Because,’ Isak continues, ‘I wasn’t being totally honest.’

‘I wasn’t either,’ Even replies immediately, his hands coming to Isak’s thighs. He squeezes them. Isak feels like he’s sprinting a marathon and they keep changing where the finish line is.

Isak realises his hands are in Even’s hair now, and they’re clinging to each other in Even’s bed, at 3am, stupid with want and lust and fear.

‘Just—just tell me one thing,’ Even says, his hands moving up to Isak’s waist, pulling them closer together. Isak’s eyes flutter closed at the contact, and he wonders how he’s let himself go this far.

‘Ok,’ Isak says.

‘Did he kiss you?’

The pause Isak leaves in response is telling enough. But Even doesn’t react, instead asks,

‘Did you like it?’

Isak is _mortified_ , but it stirs something in his gut anyway, a misdirected arousal that Even is asking him that, that he wants to _know_.

‘Why did you leave him and come to me?’ Even asks instead, and his voice is breaking now, and Isak is close now, so close.

Isak relents, and grabs Even by the collar of his shirt, pulling them into each other’s space. He leans in and whispers into Even’s ear with all the pent-up desire he’s hidden for so long,

‘Because I want _you_.’

It is too much, Isak realises. It’s asking far too much of Even to keep up with how he changes his mind, insisting one minute that they keep it kosher, and the next minute, wrapping his legs around Even and demanding they acknowledge their feelings.

Even must feel the same way, because he lets out a strangled breath and drops his head into Isak’s shoulder, his fingers pressing into Isak’s lower back.

‘What about our jobs?’ Even asks, and he sounds distraught, like this question has plagued him too.

The question punctures Isak’s boldness. He remembers with a horrible clarity the despair and loneliness and anxiety that haunted him through unemployment and homelessness. The constant fear whenever he checked his bank balance. The deliberation before meeting up with Jonas and Eva for drinks. The plunging dread when checking his receipts and counting out the change in his wallet. The pity on his friends’ faces when he isolated himself, again, because even if he could afford to do whatever activity they had planned, he had no idea what to say when they asked how he was doing, what he intended to do with his life now.

And he remembers with an equally strong regret what Even had to go through. The shitty jobs he worked in London, the fallout when he admitted to Mikael how he really felt, the emptiness when he got back to Oslo to find most of his friends had moved away—

Isak hangs his head, willing the tears back. They can’t risk it.

‘You’re right,’ he whispers, backing away from Even, trying to shuffle back off the bed, ‘It doesn’t matter. We can’t do anything about it.’

His heart is bruised, but he’s proud at least of the bravery it took him to be direct with Even about his feelings. It was courageous and bold and ill-advised and brave, and as his feet touch the floor, he reminds himself of how far he’s come to get to this point.

He fiddles with his cuffs again, and thinks of something to say before he leaves: maybe he should acknowledge that, although work is going to be awkward and uncomfortable, especially with Anders playing an oblivious third wheel, they’ll get over it. It’ll get better. This is the worst point, now.

This is his greatest fear, and he’s already conquered it.

But before he can process any of that, before barely five seconds have passed since he spoke last, he feels more than sees Even’s hands fly forward and take hold of his waist, pulling him back and pressing him onto the bed, and then Even is lying on top of him, covering him from chest to knees, pinning his hands into the mattress on either side of his head.

‘It matters to me,’ Even says darkly. ‘And why can’t we do something?’

Isak groans in frustration and arousal. ‘Fuck,’ he mutters, ‘stop—stop touching me. We can’t—’

But Even leans down and presses his nose to Isak’s neck, moving his lips across the skin there. Isak is writhing, his feet moving back and forth for purchase, his hands gripping tighter onto Even’s, willing him to stop, to never stop.

‘Tell me you don’t want it,’ Even mutters, his lips brushing Isak’s collarbone with each syllable.

‘This is _torture_ ,’ Isak whines, his eyes screwed shut, his breath coming fast now, the overwhelming heat and arousal and disbelief making his brain simply go quiet as his body takes over from his logic.

‘You showed up in the middle of the night to tell me you want me,’ Even says, breathless, on top of him, leaning in to rub the tips of their noses together. ‘I always knew you were stronger than you let on, but this is another level, Isak. _Fuck_ ,’ he whispers, his hands sliding down to Isak’s waist and pressing his thumbs into his hips.

‘Even—’ Isak whimpers, ‘I—you’re right. We can’t—we’ll lose everything—’

‘What if,’ Even says, sitting bolt upright, his fingers still pressing into Isak’s skin, ‘what if we act on it. Just once. Just tonight.’

‘What? What are you saying?’

‘Our contracts forbid relationships. Right? But how could they know if we slept together only once, and never told anyone, and it never happened again?’

‘You mean—’ Isak says, his hands moving to Even’s thighs, his lips parted, his heart thumping wildly in his chest at the suggestion.

‘Maybe it’s the pent-up attraction and lust and boredom in that fucking archive room that’s fuelling this desire, right? Maybe if we slept together we’d get it all out of our system. Maybe it’s so bad now because it’s been so repressed.’

Even sounds like he’s grasping at straws, but the insecure part of Isak has to ask anyway, ‘Do you think that’s it?’

The question is potent, deadly. He knows Even will understand what he’s really asking. He knows Even will see right through it.

And Even closes his eyes, tilts his head away from Isak.  
Then he quietly says, ‘No. I don’t.’

Isak wants to cry. He really, really wants to cry. And he feels like he’s going to if they keep talking. Because nothing is getting resolved, nothing makes sense, and he feels like he’s risking everything on a tiny chance that this won’t completely ruin their lives in the morning.

‘But,’ Even continues, ‘we can’t pretend like our feelings don’t exist.’

‘Didn’t you say the last thing you needed was another one-night-stand?’ Isak asks, trying to ignore Even’s vulnerability, because it’s too raw, it’s too real. And they have to acknowledge the ways in which this decision is going against everything they _should_ be doing.

Even shakes his head, and places his hands over Isak’s. ‘I said I needed to act on my real feelings, not the anger left over from heartbreak.’

Isak senses the evasion, the need to present the truth a certain way to make sure Isak doesn’t leave. But the way Even is opening up to this risk…Isak wonders if he’s not also being equally brave in his honesty.

In Isak’s silence, Even insists, ‘And we can’t continue like this. At least, **I** can’t.’

This is torture, Isak thinks, it really is. And what’s worse, he’s enjoying it a little. He is enjoying seeing Even so desperate and desirable, sitting on his lap, begging him to risk it.

And he likes the feeling of being the one to make the decision.

‘How could we keep it a secret?’ he asks, tentatively. ‘How would no one find out?’

Even’s eyes light up at the hint of conciliation. ‘I slept with Johanne and no one knew,’ he replies immediately, like he’s thought this through. ‘Not even you knew, and you work with us all the time.’

‘Yeah,’ Isak retorts, ‘but if they found out about Johanne it wouldn’t matter because it happened before you started working with her.’

Isak sighs, and pushes Even off him.

They fall silent. The room is still. And Isak sits with his legs crossed while Even lies next to him, a hand drifting up to caress his cheek.

‘This is such a risk,’ Isak says, fiddling with his cuffs again.

‘Yes,’ Even replies confidently. ‘It is a risk. But isn’t it **a risk worth taking**?’

There it is. Isak knows he’s pushed Even to this point. He knows it was what he’d been hoping to hear since he arrived at the front door. And he feels guilty that it’s gone his way, for once. But the guilt is far outweighed by the fresh sense of victory when he’s fought for what he wants.

But he has to ask the final question. ‘Even,’ he says slowly, ‘How—how can we act normally around each other if we let this happen, even if it’s just for one night?’

He looks at him, desperate with longing. ‘How can we work together if we give in to this?’

Even stares at Isak with steeled determination, and replies with no hint of hesitation.

‘How can we work if we don’t?’

\--

Isak doesn’t think. He just moves. He lets his body shift without his conscious thought, and he’s kneeling on top of Even, slowly pushing him back on the bed with just his chest. He grips two fistfuls of the sheets on either side of Even’s head.

Even’s hands come to Isak’s hips and he pulls Isak down so their groins are flush together. The feeling of that heat, that closeness, has Isak moaning lowly, and then he feels Even’s lips at his jaw, his chin. And he knows there’s something else he has to deny Even tonight.

‘We—’ Isak says, then breaks off at the sensation of Even’s tongue on his pulse point. ‘We can’t kiss on the lips.’

Even grunts in protest and pulls back. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Please,’ Isak begs, ‘for the sake of my feelings, if not yours. If we’re supposed to go back to normal tomorrow, and never let on that this happened, I can’t know what it’s like to kiss you. I just can’t.’

Their faces are centimetres apart, and Isak can feel the warmth of Even’s breath on his cheek, and the temptation to immediately renege on his own demand is so strong that he can barely tolerate it.

But Even seems to understand, seems to know why Isak can’t let them kiss. Because he spreads his fingers across Isak’s lower back and then nods, once, twice. And then he turns Isak over so he’s lying on his back on the bed.

‘I won’t deny you anything,’ he says, his voice deep with awe and honesty, and moves his trembling fingers to Isak’s jumper, tugging at it until they both pull it over Isak’s head and throw it on the ground.

\--

Even undresses Isak with an agonising _lack_ of haste. He slowly and deliberately removes Isak’s shirt, socks, trousers, until Isak’s lying in his bed in just his boxers, and frozen to the pillow. He can barely believe this is happening. Even’s hands on him, around him, caressing him. There’s a distinct chance he will refuse to leave the bed.

Isak insists, too, that Even takes off his shirt, leaving him only in boxers. It’s the first time Isak sees the whole expanse of his chest and he can’t stop himself from reaching out to touch.

Even runs his hands gently up and down his torso, his legs, his arms, pressing kisses at random, sighing in his skin, occasionally drawing it between his teeth and leaving lovebites in places no one else would see. Isak shakes, sweats, and _begs_ Even to hurry.

‘If we’ve only got one night,’ Even says, pressing another kiss into Isak’s inner thigh, ‘I’m making the most of it.’

Isak grabs hold of Even’s hair with both hands and lets out another high moan when Even’s nose skims along the bulge in his underwear.

‘You look divine like this,’ Even whispers, placing a kiss on Isak’s bellybutton.

Isak didn’t expect him to be so gentle, so lavish in affection. He’s never been kissed so much in his life. And he’s dying from the fact that he can’t kiss him like he _wants_.

‘You feel like heaven,’ Isak says, and keeps talking though he knows he shouldn’t: ‘How—how would you—'

Isak cuts himself off when Even grabs hold of his knee and hikes it up above his waist, keeping it in place by pressing his elbow to the outside of it.

The fact that Even is between his legs, gently grinding down, kissing his skin and whispering praise is _too much_ for Isak to bear.

‘Ask me,’ Even says, picking up on Isak’s unfinished question. ‘Ask me.’

‘How would you kiss me Even? Tell me.’ He raises his other knee so he’s bracketing Even against him, and he crosses his ankles over Even’s back, refusing to let him go anywhere. ‘If you could kiss me, how would you do it?’

Even moves up and presses his lips to Isak’s ear. ‘However you want me to.’

‘ _Tell me_ ,’ Isak demands, gripping onto Even as he arches up and rolls his hard length against him, the sound of rubbing cotton and stuttered breath filling the room.

‘Fuck,’ Even whines, as he hangs his head, and grinds back.

‘I’d kiss you like this,’ he says, drawing Isak’s nipple softly between his lips and sucking hard, tonguing it. Isak’s face is on fire, his hands trying to grip onto Even but his back is slick with sweat.

‘I’d—’ Even says, breathless, after he lets the hard nub pop out of his mouth, and rolls their hard dicks together again in an unrelenting rhythm, ‘I’d kiss your lips like they were the only thing that kept me breathing.’

And then he kisses Isak’s nipple again, and draws it back between his lips, and tongues it. Then—to Isak’s surprise and intense arousal—he lightly bites it.

The intense flash of heat that courses through Isak gives him little warning, before he lets out a deep and loud moan, and then comes.

Even looks up to see the ecstasy on Isak’s face, and he whines when he feels the wetness from Isak against his own dick at the same time. The dirtiness of it makes him wild with desire, and he looks down between their still-moving hips, only to see the translucent fluid leak out of Isak’s boxers and begin to seep into his own.

Even lets out a desperate whine as he drops his lips to Isak’s other nipple, and rolls his hips again and again, revelling in how he’s getting off on Isak’s pleasure. Then all at once, he feels his orgasm about to take over. He shouts out as he falls apart, coming all over the inside of his own boxers, and not stopping until he’s wrung every second of pleasure from the feeling of Isak’s body pushing against his own.

\--

They go all night. _All night_. Every time they start to cool down or relax into the sheets, one of them turns over and clings on again, pushing and pulling and sucking until they’re both worked up and feverish for release.

‘How would you kiss me, Isak? Tell me,’ Even says, as Isak breathes heavily into his shoulder, his thighs straining from how he’s riding Even’s fingers.

‘I wouldn’t stop,’ Isak sighs, ‘god, Even, I’d never stop.’

He wraps both arms around Even in a hug, grinding down onto his hand and moaning straight into his ear. The feeling of Even’s hands _inside him_ is perfect. He’s perfect. Even, he knows now, is the perfect lover. And Isak’s already dreading the idea of having to stop this. But Even’s fingers directly target his pleasure point again, for the umpteenth time, and he lets out the feeling in a high whine.

‘Then do it,’ Even kisses the words into his hair, ‘Kiss me, Isak. _Please._ ’

Isak pulls him closer and grinds down harder still. ‘Even,’ he warns.

But Even doesn’t listen to the warning. He kisses Isak’s ear, drags the lobe between his teeth, then moves his lips to Isak’s cheek, and pleads, ‘I have to kiss you.’

‘Not now,’ Isak says, near to tears, and he knows it’s killing them both. ‘We can’t kiss. Not now.’

Even grabs Isak’s ass with his free hand and directs the movement to push down harder on his fingers. They get lost in their need.

\--

Around 7am, spent and weak, they lie down together. Even wraps Isak in his arms and their legs intertwine as they settle on their right sides. Isak gently takes hold of Even’s hands from his ribs and begins to play with them.

‘You…you really have a thing for that, don’t you?’ Even asks, happy but sleepy.

‘A thing for what?’ Isak says, caressing Even’s fingers with his own, running his thumbs along Even’s palms.

‘My hands,’ he replies, curling his fingers around Isak’s.

‘You have nice hands,’ Isak mumbles, shy out of nowhere at Even’s perception, and Even draws him closer into his chest and kisses his cheek.

‘Careful,’ Isak warns, ‘that’s getting awfully close to no-man’s-land.’

Even gently pulls Isak so he’s on his back, and Even hovers over him, rubs his nose against Isak’s. It’s the closest Isak gets to letting the tears fall. He’s afraid Even will break his rule. He’s afraid Even _won’t_ break it.

‘I thought maybe I’d want you less when we slept together,’ Even whispers, running his fingers through Isak’s hair.

And Isak’s can’t hear whatever comes next. He can’t bear it.

So he rolls on top of Even, kisses his collarbone wetly, and drags the lube out from where they’d left it under the pillows.

‘Why’d you tell him what to do?’ Isak asks, and he knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s breaking an unspoken rule. ‘Why’d you set up the perfect date, Even? Tell me.’

‘You know why,’ Even replies, his eyes a dream as Isak squeezes out the lube onto his fingers.

‘ _Why_ ,’ Isak demands, as he leans forward and wraps his hand around Even’s dick, tugging and squeezing and trying to _wring_ the answer out of him.

‘Because I wanted to be the one to date you,’ he says, his voice high in his throat, ‘I wanted you to feel loved, even if it wasn’t by me.’

Isak cries into Even’s neck and Even knows their talking is over, that Isak needs to be taken care of now. So he pushes Isak until he’s sitting up again on Even’s lap, and then Even does the best thing Isak could hope for.

He puts his hands around both of their dicks, and starts to jerk them off together, his thumbs caressing their slits on every upstroke, and then stroking around their balls on every downstroke.

Isak’s eyes roll back in his head. He doesn’t know what sounds he’s making. He only knows that Even’s hands are touching them both and he can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t believe this is all about to end.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...
> 
> that was a lot, i know. mostly i wrote it at 1am last night while i was drunk and rereading all your comments and i wanted to write something different from what i had originally planned. i hope it made you feel something, anything.
> 
> of course there's fallout from this... and isak has already made some assumptions that will get in his way. even is working through his own stuff, too, and will hurt when he realises isak isn't on the same page. 
> 
> isak took charge this chapter in a way he usually doesn't, and it's given him a boost. but in that new ego, he's missing vital clues from even. (they will work it out, eventually... but yeah, the slow burn is here to stay for now)
> 
> kudos and comments and the rotation of the sun really make my day. <3 (yeah future chapters will bring the return of dadjoke!even)


	6. Oh my soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter sees: the fallout from ch. 5, Johanne making enquiries, Even opening up, Anders and a lads' night out, Linn coming to the rescue, a tarot reading, weed, and Isak getting one surprise after the next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to the beautiful TabithaAnne for beta'ing this chapter <3 It made such a difference. I also took huge inspiration from reading her Storm Before the Calm fic so pls if you guys haven't checked it out already I cannot praise it enough <3
> 
> Sorry this one has been delayed, this week has been nuts for me, teaching and training for a 10K and then I fly home for a family wedding this weekend, so it may be next week before I even start writing another update.
> 
> Hope you enjoy <3

‘Isak!’

From where he’s just pressed the button to close the elevator doors, Isak hears Johanne shout out his name.

He’s feeling tender and weary and anxious, and he’d hoped the day could pass without having to see or talk to her—but it’s only 8.45am and apparently that wish has already been vetoed.

He considers ignoring her as the doors begin to shut. From sheer nervousness he’s not sure how to act around her now. _Does she know?_ _What happens if she finds out?_

‘Isak, hold the doors!’ she shouts again.

He sighs, and feels his shoulders sag. He’s trembling with anxiety but he braces himself for the first test.

Dutifully, he presses the ‘open doors’ button and looks up from his feet. Johanne is crossing the lobby, which is slippy with wet footprints and slush from the street. She tries to move quickly but safely, meaning her arms are out from her sides and she’s penguin-footing awkwardly towards the elevator.

‘Hey,’ she pants as she slides in next to him and presses the button for the basement. He nods in response, and tries to control his breathing.

‘How was your weekend?’ she asks, a warm smile on her face.

Despite how tired and drained he feels, no small part of Isak is relieved that she seemingly hasn’t a clue how he and Even broke their contracts just two nights prior. _Multiple_ times. His heart beats fast against his chest as he forces himself to remain calm.

‘Oh, same as ever,’ he says. He tries to mentally block the images of Even’s naked body from his mind, the sounds Even made when he watched Isak come, the taste of his—

‘You still training for that marathon with Even?’ she asks.

Isak didn’t know Johanne was aware of that. But he guesses Even would have mentioned it at some point over the last few weeks. And now, he suddenly realises, they probably won’t be training together anymore.

It had only been a day since Isak left Even’s bed while he was still sleeping, quietly dressing himself and leaving the flat, and spending all of his Sunday wrapped in a blanket on his sofa, watching Netflix and desperately trying to get a grip of what he’d just done. What he’d just _allowed_ himself to do. For the first time. Ever. With the one person he’s not allowed to do it with.

The tears only came when he’d realised he’d just forced himself into another situation where he’s neither a friend nor a lover. He’s probably a distraction, mostly. Sure, Even said things in the heat of the moment, but Isak was standing in the cold lobby of their workplace now, where it was easy to deny all of it. How easily did Even get past sleeping with Johanne? Doesn’t seem too different. Sure, Isak showed some gumption in following his feelings, but what was the result? Another ambiguous situation where he’s powerless to do anything, except feel exposed and heartbroken and stupid. Despite his best efforts, he was back in the fucking grey.

And in all that thinking, he’d clean forgotten about the marathon. He’d ignored Even’s texts and calls and holed himself up, reliving every minute of the night before, before he wept solidly at the grounding awareness that it could never happen again. His eyes were still sore.

‘Yeah, the marathon,’ Isak says, dragging a hand through his unwashed hair, ‘It’s a real commitment.’

Johanne hums in agreement and picks up on Isak’s monosyllabic answers as hints at his desire for isolation. So, they walk the rest of the way to Room 21.21 in silence, Johanne twirling her keys through her fingers and checking her phone for the news headlines.

As they reach the room, Johanne unlocks the door and they both enter. She lets Isak take his coat off in silence, turn his under-desk heater on, and boot up his laptop before she speaks again.

‘I just want a little check-in,’ she explains, ‘before the others get here.’

Isak is suspicious at the request, but he figures, she’s the boss. As long as she doesn’t peer too closely at his dynamic with Even, he’ll tell her whatever she wants to hear.

‘How is Anders settling in really?’ she asks.

The question takes Isak by surprise. But then again, it’s not unusual for managers to want to know how their team really works.

‘He mostly works with Even,’ Isak tells her, truthfully. ‘I’ve been here longer so I’ve kind of set up a one-man-show for myself. Anders tends to do the transcriptions for Even while he reads the microfiche, but they take turns. And we all take breaks from the microfiche machines to reorganise the files or get coffee, so. Yeah, mostly it’s fine.’

Not that he’s really been paying much attention, too distracted by how Even occasionally tried to play footsie with him under the desk, or find an excuse to stand close to him, or just throw an outrageous come-on apropos of nothing when the work got too dull (and thereby give Isak a horrendously inappropriate boner).

‘Mostly?’ Johanne asks, picking up on Isak’s elision.

Isak curses himself for being equivocal—he can’t explain that the reason he doesn’t like Anders is because Anders has been an oblivious third wheel that’s looked sideways at the way he interacts with Even. But then again, Isak thinks, _maybe from now on that’ll be the best thing. A constant presence to enforce professionalism._

‘Well,’ Isak backtracks, ‘there’s always going to be teething pains at the start, you know, but nothing to worry about, really.’

Johanne appraises Isak for a moment, and then nods. ‘Ok,’ she says, seemingly satisfied. ‘Nothing else to report?’

For a second Isak wonders if Johanne has heard something that’s made her want to ‘check in’ like this, if there’s specific information about Anders she’s looking for, but he can’t figure out what it would be.

‘Nope,’ Isak says, simply.

‘What if I told you that Anders has informally approached me and asked if there were other offices or duties he could be assigned to?’

The look on her face gives nothing away. Isak panics, wondering if Anders has picked up on how he & Even act and jumped to conclusions, if what they just did on Saturday night has already come back to karmically kick them in the ass, if this is the end of everything.

‘I—I don’t—’ Isak blanches, thinking and thinking and coming up with nothing to say.

‘You can be honest with me, Isak,’ Johanne says, gently. And she sounds like she means it. Like she’d understand.

Isak wonders for a moment if she really would. She slept with Even already, too, Isak reminds himself, with a _huge_ wave of jealousy and a small part of disgust. But that puts her in a pretty good position to understand, if Isak were to tell her, just get it out of the way, just _blurt_ it out and then at least it would be out—

‘Morning!’ Even says cheerfully as he saunters into the archive room. But in that second Isak sees how his eyes are sunken, how his hair is unkempt, his smile is fake. Johanne doesn’t seem to notice, Even is acting so energetic, but Isak knows he’s feeling as rough and miserable as him.

Isak then fiddles with his laptop and pretends to be busy in work. His game plan for the day was to be civil with Even, get by, and return to some semblance of normalcy. Maybe reiterate the fact that they are strictly colleagues now, and tell Even not to try and fuck with him. No more flirting, no more innuendos, no more games.

But once Even is in front of him, Isak knows it’s a pointless plan. 

He misses him, and he’s only on the other side of the desk.

Johanne turns to face Even and waves a hand politely. ‘Hi Even. I was just talking to Isak here about how Anders is settling in,’ she says, folding her arms and looking at Even expectantly.

‘Oh yeah?’ Even asks, glancing at Isak for a second. ‘Isak doesn’t warm up easily to new people,’ he says with a performative smirk on his face, ‘but Anders is doing fine, I think.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ Johanne says. ‘But, as I was just telling Isak, Anders has approached me and asked to be transferred to any other available offices or duties.’

Even drops his backpack by his seat and looks at Johanne in surprise. ‘He did?’

‘Yes,’ she says, ‘he gave me the impression that he feels a little… out of the loop.’

Isak’s heart starts beating faster. _Did Anders suspect? Had he said something?_

‘I expect it’s because he’s starting weeks after the two of you have already gotten settled into a routine,’ she continues, ‘so it may be that you all just need to find ways to integrate a little better. He is a close friend of the Minister, so… Yeah. You’ll figure it out.’

‘We’ll set up a coffee or a drink so he feels more involved,’ Even promises.

Just then, Johanne’s phone starts to ring. She nods quickly at Even, then takes the phone out of her pocket, glances at the screen, and looks at the two men.

‘I better take this. Remember – get Anders on side. I’ll talk to you later,’ she says, before waving goodbye. She opens the door, exits, and lets it fall shut behind her.

The thud the door makes as it closes is almost deafening in the silence that follows.

Even sighs and starts to take off his coat, ignoring Isak’s presence across the desk. Isak’s eyes are following him around the room, and he’s chewing at his bottom lip, pulling at a loose thread on his shirt seam, willing Even to break the silence, wondering if he should set up some distance, some ground rules.

The air in the room is heavy. Isak is suffocating.

But Even continues as if he’s working alone, rolling up his sleeves to his elbows and taking out his water bottle from his backpack to place it next to the monitor.

For a while there are just the sounds of Even getting settled back into work, as he switches on his microfiche machine, takes out the new files, turns on his laptop. Each movement and sound makes Isak startle, but he tries to seem engrossed in their mind-numbing work.

Instead, five, ten, fifteen minutes pass and they both sit in silence across from each other, typing away on their keyboards, or shifting slightly to peer at the microfiche machines.

Isak realises Even isn’t going to broach it. That they’re going to continue in this strange stalemate until one person attempts to peek over the monitor and say something. He’s not sure how to cope with this. He’d assumed Even would take the lead, somehow, that he’d force Isak to talk.

Isak isn’t used to volunteering communication, thanks to Eskild and Jonas, who always knew to needle him until he surrendered. Otherwise he would hole himself up and refuse to acknowledge to anyone that something was wrong. But now, the interminable silence is so pronounced, so _profound_ that Isak can’t tolerate it—he needs to talk to Even. He’d kind of hoped Even would make the first move, there.

 _The texts_ , he remembers. He’d ignored them all. Maybe Even was pissed at him. Maybe he was disappointed. Offended. _Fuck, what if this is a silence of hatred?_

Isak starts to sweat with worry. Anders is due in any minute, and he knows he has to do something _now_ or wait indefinitely. And waiting has never been one of his strong suits.

He decides to manufacture a reason to see Even’s face. Then he can decide how to proceed. So, Isak stands up and walks to one of the shelves behind his desk, peering at random boxes of files, pretending to look for something specific. After a minute or two, he steals a glance at Even behind the machine.

Even looks exhausted. He’s staring at the screen blankly, clearly trying to avoid acknowledging Isak’s presence in the same way Isak was trying to avoid his. The smile and energy he projected for Johanne’s benefit is all gone. Isak looks at him and sees a reflection of himself.

He knows, then, for sure: they made a huge mistake on Saturday night.

It was brave, certainly—despite the recklessness and stupidity of falling into bed with the one person he’s legally _not allowed to_ , Isak still is proud of the bravery it took to be honest about his feelings. And proud of Even for fighting his corner, too. Though it doesn’t outweigh how impulsive and irresponsible they were. Not by a long shot. The weight and gravity of that decision—the risk—falls afresh on Isak’s shoulders.

Plus, there’s every possibility it meant nothing to Even. It wasn’t Even’s first time sleeping with someone at work. It wasn’t Even’s first time being seduced. It wasn’t Even’s _first time ever_.

Isak feels the constriction of shame and anxiety in his throat and briefly resents Even for having more experience than him, for not being as weak or pathetic or compliant all the damn time. But then, he glances at Even again, and sees traces of red in his eyes that betray excessive tears or tiredness—or both—and the way he holds himself like he’s barely functioning.

Isak decides to turn down the volume of the negative voices in his head, and instead try his utmost to fix it. Fix them. Even should never look or feel that shattered. Though they can’t be lovers, they were always friends.

‘I just burned 2,000 calories,’ Isak says, far too loudly, into the room. He blindly prays that his gambit works.

Even is clearly shocked by the sudden and strange announcement, but he slowly looks at Isak. They make brief eye contact as Even asks, ‘Ok?’

Isak nods his head and pulls a box from the shelf in front of him, thumbing through it as a prop. ‘Yeah. That’s the _last_ time I leave brownies in the oven while I nap.’

He holds his breath as he waits for Even to catch on. Fiddling with the files in his hands, he waits. And waits.

Then, just as he thinks Even must be ignoring him, he hears him say, ‘Did you just—’

Isak looks over at him, and his heart starts to stir in his chest with a meek hope.

‘You’re _kidding_ ,’ Even repeats, getting to his feet, his mouth open, his face a blank sheet of shock.

‘Did you just—’ Even says, approaching Isak in long strides, ‘did you just make a punny joke? Are you _kidding_ _me_?’

Isak drops the box of files, paper splaying out across his feet, as Even walks up to him, right into his personal space, and backs Isak away from the shelf and against the wall.

They’re chest to chest now, and Even’s hands are placed on the wall, on either side of Isak’s waist.

‘You hate puns,’ he says, looking into Isak’s eyes, glancing from one to the other quickly.

Isak nods, but stops when he feels the tip of his nose glance off of Even’s.

‘Why’d you make a punny joke?’ he asks, his eyes on Isak’s lips, fixed on them, as he licks his own.

‘To make you feel better,’ Isak says simply.

Even makes a desperate sound and closes his eyes, while Isak keeps his hands in fists at his sides. He knows he should be pushing Even away, insisting that they talk, insisting that they set down some ground rules, but he has no willpower for that when Even is this close to him.

‘I’m sorry for walking out on you. And ignoring you yesterday,’ Isak admits, instead. ‘I just … panicked. I needed some space.’

He congratulates himself inwardly for being this honest. But it doesn’t come close to the guilt he still feels at bailing on Even.

The sight of him softly snoring, his hair a mess on the pillow, one leg hitched over the covers, the sunlight drifting in through the curtains and across the bed—Isak can still see it. It was agony leaving Even behind without a word. But he told himself at the time it was necessary, it was part of the one-night deal.

Even moves his hands up on the wall so they’re on either side of Isak’s shoulders. ‘It did hurt to wake up alone,’ he says, ‘but I kind of understood why. And I knew we’d both be here for work anyway, so mostly I felt … exposed, especially when you left me on read.’

Closing his eyes, Isak wills himself to get some perspective. Anders is about to walk in. Johanne might, too, at any moment.

‘Look at me, Isak,’ Even whispers, and his hands are on Isak’s face, now.

Isak opens his eyes and Even is looking at him with utmost sincerity.

‘Can we still train? As usual? I hope you still want to run with me,’ he says.

And Isak knows, he _knows_ it’s a bad idea, that they should keep it strictly professional, only see each other at work. But he remembers how his friends are all moving on, how running is helping him sleep, how much he _wants_ Even in his life. And the fact that Even is looking at him right now and there isn’t a single part of him that wants to let this go.

‘I don’t know if we should,’ Isak says, instead. He knows they’re about to cross a line. He needs to know why Even’s doing it.

Even nods and pulls back slightly, which Isak hates. He wants more opposition, more negotiation, more ways of overcoming this.

‘You’re right,’ Even says quietly. ‘Because even if we weren’t bound by our contracts, neither of us is really in a position to see anyone right now.’

Swallowing his grief, Isak reminds himself that Even has a point, a very good point. But he wants to refute it, point out instead that he’s been more assertive in the last week than he has ever been before, that he’s been more honest and open, more willing to expose himself to heartbreak, while knowing that it’s all going to end badly.

‘Or at least,’ Even continues, ‘I’m not.’

‘You still feel like you’re making decisions based on anger? Based on what happened with Mikael?’

‘Sometimes, sure,’ Even admits. ‘But … I mean…’ He trails off, and moves to stand next to Isak against the wall, holding his hands behind his back.

‘I mentioned before how … I’m still dealing with a lot of internalised homophobia,’ he begins.

Sensing that Even needs a listener more than a conversation, Isak falls silent.

‘I don’t know, there’s a bunch of reasons behind it, I guess. But the result is the same.’ He stares at a far-off point on the opposite wall, beyond the machines, the desks, the paper. ‘When I fall asleep at night I don’t imagine myself settling down with anyone that would constitute a “queer” relationship. I imagine myself in a house with a cis woman, with two kids, maybe adopted, and a breadmaker and a garden. And I know how messed up that is. I know it’s probably more a result of the kind of heteronormative culture I grew up in, the fact that, as a cis man, I have been conditioned to think of successful partnerships in terms of being with a cis woman. But the fact is, every time I try to commit to someone of another gender, I can’t. I have no issue hooking up or making out or having casual sex. But…’

Isak blanches at that, and braces himself for hurt. Intuitively, Even reaches for his hand and keeps his eyes on it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says quietly. ‘I know this is a lot, and me talking about this might make you uncomfortable, considering what happened.’

‘But it’s bigger than that,’ Isak replies. ‘I get that bi and pan people face a lot more scrutiny and criticism because so many people both within and outside the queer community don’t really _get_ it. Of course that has an impact on how you perceive yourself.’

Even smiles sadly and squeezes his hand. ‘So nice,’ he says, but it’s just to himself.

‘I want to know, even though it does hurt to hear. But I’d rather understand where you’re coming from than block out anything that might hurt,’ Isak explains.

There’s a pause where Even takes a long breath and lets go of Isak’s hand. ‘You’re exceptional,’ he says. ‘You really are.’

Isak nudges him with his elbow and deflects. ‘C’mon. Out with it.’

Letting another sigh escape his lips, Even goes on. ‘Well. Yeah. I pursue and hook up with queer people all the time, but it gets to a point where they want more—and I run for the hills. And I hate that. I _hate_ it about myself. There’s some mental block I have where I’m not allowing myself to even _consider_ a non-heteronormative relationship.’

Isak listens. He listens, and he wonders if he can hear the sound of his own heart breaking. Even’s body language is clearly dejected, and the tone of is voice is gentle, as if trying to shield Isak from the blow of reality.

‘I know it has to do with not being out to my parents,’ Even admits. ‘It’s like I’m living a lie until they know that I’m pan. Like none of this mid-twenties fantasy-life I’ve constructed is valid until I can be myself in _every_ aspect of my life. I don’t know, I’m probably not articulating this well.’

‘You are,’ Isak says, though he won’t explain how well Even is getting his point across. He can’t let Even know how much it stings.

‘The only cultural reference we have for being queer and coming out is for monosexual people,’ Even says, frowning, ‘Like the standard tropes are: you’ve always “kind of” known, you knew for sure when you hit puberty, you’ve been in the closet throughout your teenage years, and there comes a day where you just own it and everything gets better. Right? But—I didn’t always know. I didn’t know for a long, long time. How could I? All I understood of homosexuality or queerness was that it was for freaks and weirdos and degenerates. The kinds of nascent romantic feelings I had as a teenager for people of other genders I couldn’t understand as being anything other than platonic—the only template I was given was heterosexuality. I didn’t understand anything else. So most of the time I feel like a fraud, a fake. How can I really be pan if I can’t visualise myself with someone who’s not a cis woman? How can my feelings for someone any other gender be valid if they’re warped by years of repression and internalised homophobia? How can I be accepted in my own community if I don’t know how my own queerness works?’

Isak doesn’t know what to say. His experience matches the ‘standard tropes,’ and he’d never considered how Even must have faced such a different set of problems in coming to terms with his pansexuality. It’s as interesting as it is upsetting.

And that’s when Isak realises what Even is really saying.

_We’re not going to be together. This is not going to work out._

It was a gentle, non-personalised way of rejecting Isak, of explaining that the obstacles between them were more than just some pieces of HR paper. They’re not going to find a way around this. It was a once-off, and that’s what it will remain.

‘Only you can feel what you feel,’ Isak says, instead. It’s the only thing he can think to soothe him, and to soothe himself.

Even looks at Isak, then, with wonder all over his face. But the door opens, and they snap out of their bubble to welcome Anders in, despite the fact that he’s twenty minutes late. Not that it matters—he’s friends with the Minister.

\--

Anders, in his first week, had gone out every day for lunch to meet friends of his and, on occasion, his girlfriend Ingrid. But today, Anders surprises both Isak and Even fifteen minutes before their lunch break by announcing,

‘Hey guys, I brought a blanket for the staff lounge!’

He retrieves said blanket from his backpack with a victorious grin, raising it into the air in his right hand, looking at them both for approval.

Isak’s lip turns and he tries to think of a less vicious way of telling Anders to take a running jump, but Even—likely sensing Isak’s murderousness from behind the machine—intervenes, and congratulates him.

‘Oh, nice one. Are you joining us for lunch today then?’

Anders shrugs and says, ‘If you don’t mind? I brought in some _krumkake_ that my flatmate made over the weekend we can share!’

This of course wins Even over. Isak knows that _krumkake_ is one of Even’s weaknesses, so he’s not in the least surprised to hear him say, ‘Yes, absolutely! Right Isak?’

Even peeks over the monitor to catch his eye—Isak musters up a fake smile and acquiesces. ‘Sure thing, Anders.’

So, lunch sees the three of them sitting crosslegged in the ‘staff lounge’ corner of the archive room, Anders munching on his sweet _krumkake_ , Even eating a homemade avocado chicken salad, and Isak chewing unhappily on his _brunost_ sandwich.

Even’s put on a playlist of his favourite Sigrid songs as they chat idly through the hour. As Anders complains at length about how hard it is to find time to write—he’s writing his first novel, a fictional autobiography, of course—Isak notices Even rubbing at his own eyes and squinting at Anders. After a few minutes, Even reaches into his backpack and retrieves his glasses case and small contact lens holder.

‘Sorry guy, my contacts are acting up. Is it ok if I take them out? I know some people really don’t like seeing this part,’ he says.

Anders has just taken a huge bite of his _krumkake_ and so nods while crumbs spill from his mouth, while Isak waves a hand in acquiescence, despite the fact that he now has to bear seeing Even wear glasses again.

Once Even removes the lenses and puts them back in his travel case, he takes out his glasses and puts them on, scrunching his nose and blinking a few times to get used to the change.

As Anders continues bemoaning the difficulties of writing about his relationship ‘without sounding like an asshole,’ Even gently brings his hand to his own face and places the tip of his index finger to the bridge of his glasses, pushing them gently further up on his nose. Isak hates that that simple gesture has such an effect on him.

Then, as Anders rounds off by denigrating the cafés of Oslo for their lack of hot baristas to act as appropriate Muses, Isak notices how Even barely suppresses an eyeroll as he takes his snus tin out of his back pocket. As per his habit, he retrieves a portion and places it behind his upper lip, making that kissing-sound again as he slots it into place with his tongue. Isak is mesmerised, just watching it happen, the proximity of Even’s hands, lips, mouth. He clears his throat and Isak darts his eyes up to meet Even’s—where he finds Even looking back at him with bemused surprise.

Needing to immediately deflect, Isak turns to Anders and interrupts his monologue to ask, ‘So, how was your weekend?’

Anders is startled by Isak’s interest, having only received cold indifference prior to this. He seems pleased at the attention, however, and leans back on the cabinet behind him as he begins his tale of the ‘epic vors’ at his pal Julian’s house, the skinny dipping in the Akerselva with the rest of the soccer team, and the two day hangover.

Isak is only half-listening, but his brain catches _Julian_ and _soccer team_ : ‘Wait,’ he says, ‘… you don’t mean Julian Dahl?’

‘Yeah!’ Anders says happily. ‘You know him & the guys too?’

‘We were in Nissen together,’ Isak explains, as Even sits up straight and looks sharply between them.

‘ _Fy faen_ , that’s awesome,’ Anders says, clapping a hand on Isak’s shoulder. ‘We should all go get drinks!’

‘That’s a great idea!’ Even interrupts. ‘It’d be nice to chill outside of work.’

Isak is momentarily suspicious that Even just doesn’t like that they have mutual friends he didn’t know about—but then he sees Even surreptitiously spread the finger and thumb of his right hand into a ‘J’ shape on his thigh, and Isak remembers. Johanne had told them to get Anders on side, make him more integrated. He has close links to the Minister—and it’d be safer to keep him happy than give him a reason to dislike them. Especially now that they had something to hide.

‘Yeah!’ Isak agrees reluctantly, ‘let’s get everyone out for some drinks. Sounds like _fun_.’

\--

It’s Tuesday night. Isak is clutching a Tuborg in one hand as he leans against the bar in The Shamrock Pub, the fake Irish place on the other side of Løkka.

And he really wishes someone would just appear and take him out of his misery.

Julian and Anders are perched unsteadily on stools, chanting a loud song from _Trainspotting_ for some reason, and the rest of the preppy soccer boys are either chatting up disinterested women at the bar or downing shots. Even is in the corner with two of them, discussing the latest Lars von Trier film, but Isak can see that Even is struggling to find any other common ground.

The rest of the bar is full of men clearly just out of their white-collar jobs, seeking temporary solace in a beer or a whisky, and yelling incomprehensible grievances at the soccer game unfolding on TV.

Isak wants out, _immediately_. He’s already stayed for an hour and barely spoken two words to Julian, who kept trying to get Isak to chat up a waitress that Anders picked at random. Once Anders got distracted, Isak breathed a sigh of relief and ordered his second beer. That’s when a young blonde woman walked up to him and asked if she could buy him a drink, before she started tracing her fingers along Isak’s forearm and offered to bring him out the back for a ‘quick … chat.’ Isak rejected her as softly as possible without outing himself, and she shrugged in response, leaving him alone at the bar again.

So, Isak’s clutching his Tuborg with both hands and debating when he can feasibly leave without offending Anders. He decides in the meantime that he needs backup. And there’s only one person he feels will really understand.

\--

 

** Linn **

 

vile bodies 

 

??  

 

damnit 

 

whats the point in a code word    
if you don’t remember the code 

 

‘vile bodies’ is two words 

 

it’s also an evelyn waugh novel    
but that’s hardly the point 

 

what was the code? 

 

as per eskild’s instructions 

 

if anyone texted the kollektiv with ‘vile bodies’ it meant 

 

‘emergency: anyone at home pls have alcohol,    
a bath, tissues, and ideally a blanket fort    
ready for when I get home’ 

 

you don’t live here anymore 

 

shockingly, i am aware of that 

 

but this /is/ an emergency 

 

why didn’t you just say that in the first place 

 

i did not have the benefit of my current hindsight 

 

lol what’s the emergency 

 

I’m stuck in a straight bar and I can’t leave 

 

fuck 

 

send me your location 

 

i’m putting on my shoes 

 

I fucking love you Linn Larsen Hansen 

 

you want me to bring eskild or no 

 

eskild would terrify the guy who brought me here 

 

and I have to work with him, so 

 

no eskild, got it 

 

\--

 

As Isak waits for Linn to get there, he uses his phone as distraction, and an excuse to be left alone. If he rereads Even’s (mistaken) drunken booty call texts, no one is any the wiser.

But as he’s facing Even and the two soccer guys, he more often glances at them than his own phone screen. And after ten or so minutes pass, he begins to notice how one of them has sidled up closer to Even, and draped an arm along the back of the booth, behind Even’s shoulders. The other one then makes an excuse to leave, and so there’s just Even and the guy leaning in slightly.

Isak bristles and considers barging over to interrupt them, when he remembers that he has no right, none whatsoever, to tell Even who to be with. The jealousy that starts to course through him is vitriolic, _venomous_ , but he knows he can’t do anything about it. Even is free to sleep with whoever he chooses.

But then Isak notices how Even’s tilting while sitting down, how his movements are erratic, his laugh too loud, and Isak realises Even’s drunk. He’s _really_ drunk. And the guy is moving closer still, now, placing a hand on the inside of Even’s knee.

That’s it for Isak.

He immediately walks over to them, and slides in the other side of the booth so he’s sitting next to Even, who—when he sees who it is—lights up with joy and winds both arms around Isak’s waist.

‘Baby where were you,’ Even mumbles into his neck. He tries not to get hung up on the endearment, but he knows he’s blushing anyway. It was too quiet for the soccer guy to hear but Isak’s nervous about anything becoming too obvious, so he shakes Even gently and says, ‘Let’s get you home, shall we?’

‘I can look after him,’ the soccer guy interrupts, making no attempt to hide his contempt for Isak’s interference.

‘ _Isak_ can look after me,’ Even replies petulantly, squeezing on to him tighter. ‘That’s all I want.’

Isak heart races but he looks at the soccer guy to try and eradicate any suspicion. ‘He gets clingy when he’s drunk,’ Isak says, ‘he’s just gonna fall asleep if he doesn’t sober up.’

‘Whatever,’ the guy mutters, and wanders back to the scrum ordering another round of shots.

‘ _Even_ ,’ Isak hisses, ‘you’ve got to be a little more subtle.’

But Even just sighs happily into the back of Isak’s neck and mumbles, ‘I can be _subtle_. I can be the most subtle.’

‘Sure you can, pal,’ Isak says as he tries to extricate himself from Even’s constricting grasp. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

‘I’m _fine_ ,’ Even says, emphatic to an extreme. ‘I’m totally fine. I am _so_ on it. I made friends and Anders even called me “bro,” I feel like that’s an achievement unlocked, yknow. did he call you a broooyyyyyeah didn’t _think_ so babe.’

'You’re literally slurring your words together, Even,’ Isak points out, but he’s laughing a bit, now, at the sight of Even feebly justifying himself.

‘Can’t help it when I’m drunk on love.’

The admission is plain. But Isak is suddenly stricken with fear. Even’s loose tongue is a real liability right now and he can’t afford to have any slip-ups. Besides, did Even just say he _loved_ him?

‘You’re just drunk,’ Isak says instead, as he tries to pull Even from the banquette with both hands wrapped around his wrist.

‘I… am _tipsy_ , at _best_ ,’ Even argues, raising his left index finger with righteous indignation, as Isak continues to try and pull him up by his right arm.

Isak realises he’s being contrary, now. So he switches strategy. It’s guerrilla tactics, but anything to get them out of danger. He leans down and brings his lips close to Even’s ear. ‘If you follow me out, I might negotiate our one-night-deal.’

At that, Even seems to sober up instantly. He looks up at Isak with unadulterated shock and wonder, his disbelief caricatured by how stupidly _drunk_ he still is. ‘You—you mean it?’ he asks.

Isak nods seriously. And crosses his fingers behind his back. A drunk promise isn’t a promise, anyway.

‘Oh, Isak,’ Even whispers, his hands curling gently around Isak’s knees, ‘you have no idea… how much … ’

Before Isak can ask, Even goes on,

'Ever since I saw you at the Bakkoush house that summer… I knew, I just _knew_ , someday…’ he drifts off, and then catches himself, ‘Well, no, I didn’t “know.” But I felt it. This.’ He emphasises his point by taking hold of Isak’s hands and squeezing.

Isak reels at that. ‘The Bakkoush house--?’

But he never gets an answer, because before he can figure out what exactly Even is rambling about, Linn comes up by his side.

‘Hey,’ she observes, ‘Looks like you made a friend.’

Isak turns to her but his mind is still stuck on what Even just blurted out. She appraises Isak for a moment, her eyebrows raising in silent question, before Even leaps forward and wraps her in a huge hug.

‘Hi,’ he mumbles into her hair, ‘I’m Even and a little tipsy.’

Isak watches Linn as she frowns and awkwardly pats him on the back. But then as Even whispers something only she can hear, her face sets into a bemused smile and she lets out a short laugh before he pulls back.

‘Honestly,’ Even says, and Linn smiles again, then nods her head.

‘What did he say?’ Isak asks. Even smirks conspiratorially and Linn shrugs.

‘Wouldn’t you like to know,’ she says, sending Even a wink.

Outraged by this sudden camaraderie, Isak shouts, ‘ _Yeah_ , that’s why I _asked_.’

He’s not far from stomping his foot on the floor when Anders suddenly scoots over to the three of them. Isak has to wonder why everyone is getting involved in the exact moment when he wanted no one else around.

‘Hey there,’ Anders says lowly, his eyes fixed invitingly on Linn, ‘I didn’t know we were adding some hot sauce to the burrito bowl. Why didn’t you tell me you had a redheaded reserve, Isak?’

While Isak wonders what on earth Anders is talking about, Linn stares at him with a detached, nearly blank, expression. Even is visibly disgusted by Anders chatting up someone else while in a monogamous relationship.

‘In all seriousness,’ Anders goes on, sidling up to Linn and extending a hand to her, ‘it’s a pleasure to meet you.’

She makes no movement, except to shift her glance from his face to his hand, which she ignores, in favour of looking back at his face wordlessly. Isak can barely contain his glee at her unmasked apathy.

‘A tough nut to crack,’ Anders observes, retracting his hand, and giving Linn an appraising look up and down. ‘But I think we could make a pretty good sundae between the two of us, couldn’t we? What do you say, Ginger Spice?’ he asks, licking his lips at her.

Linn doesn’t blink as she deadpans, ‘Pass.’

Even barely stifles a giggle into his hand, trying to pass it off as a cough, while Isak has to look away and pinch his nose to keep the laughter at bay.

‘I have an emergency,’ she goes on, addressing Anders, and speaking as if reading from rote, ‘and I need Isak and Even to help. So … we have to leave.’

Anders fakes a pout at this, and looks between the three of them. ‘You sure you have to go so soon? We’ve only just met.’ He directs the last assertion at Linn.

‘Yep, major emergency, can’t wait, time is of the utmost,’ she says, grabbing hold of Isak and Even by the elbow, and marching them out of the bar.

‘Find me on Facebook!’ Anders shouts from the din behind them.

As the three of them escape out, Even lets rip the laugh he stifled earlier, and clutches his stomach as Linn drags him along with her and Isak.

‘Pass!,’ he repeats happily, ‘that’s the best rejection I’ve ever heard.’

Linn stops short when she sees Even flail, uncoordinated, and trip and catch himself when they step off the footpath. ‘Whoa,’ Isak says, reaching out to grab hold of him, ‘don’t run before you can walk.’

‘Just how drunk is he?’ Linn asks, curious. She has both hands on her hips as she observes Even, now leaning onto Isak like an ivy plant curling around a bamboo stake.

‘I don’t know,’ Isak says, while Even hooks his chin on his shoulder and tucks himself around Isak like he’s a body pillow. ‘I left him with some of Julian’s friends for like 40 minutes and then he was like this.’

Even is swaying from side to side, now, guiding Isak’s hips in the same motion as he hums something slow into his ear. It would be romantic if it wasn’t so ridiculous, or at least if Even wasn’t mostly hanging on to Isak to hold him upright.

‘Alright,’ Linn says, looking at her phone. ‘It’s half past ten. What should we do?’

‘Isak, Isak, Isak, Isak,’ Even says, as he pulls on Isak’s hoodie pockets. ‘Isak, Iiiiiisak, Isak—’

‘Can you hear something?’ Isak asks Linn, helpless to avoid the temptation of riling Even up despite his current state.

‘ _Isak_ ,’ Even complains. ‘I know what we should do.’

‘Where is this going?’

‘We’re closer to yours,’ Even says, seriously, ‘and I don’t want Mutta to see me this tipsy, he’ll get worried. Can we go to yours and watch something and then I’ll head back to mine around midnight? Like a sleepover without sleeping. Can we can we can we can we—’

Isak would roll his eyes if he didn’t notice Linn smiling, _grinning_ from ear to ear, and raising her hand to her mouth.

‘See?’ Even says, victorious. ‘Linn likes the idea. Say we can Isak please pretty pleeee—’

‘ _Herregud_ ,’ Isak sighs, ‘fine yes let’s go to mine. Linn, you wanna join?’

She pauses a moment to consider, and glances at her phone again. Then, she shrugs. ‘I came all the way out here. And I’m down to watch something.’

‘Yes!’ Even shouts, suddenly bringing both hands into fists and throwing them in the air. ‘Linn is joining the party!’ The force of his triumphant gesture pushes him off-kilter, however, and he starts to fall backwards, until Isak jumps forward to catch him. 

It ends in Isak’s arms wrapped around Even’s waist, his nose tucked under Even’s chin, and Even’s hands clinging to Isak’s shoulders. For a second as they balance, Isak notices how much more often they’re touching now, how _frequent_ it is, how painfully insufficient it is. But he doesn’t have much time to think, as Even starts to laugh again and then wraps Isak in a proper hug. Linn laughs, too, and quietly takes a photo of the two of them. 

\--

‘No, no, no,’ Linn says, as she bats away Even’s hand. ‘Queen of Cups is to do with intuition, emotion, empathy.’

‘But it’s in the “Solution” position,’ Even points out.

‘Yeah, and?’ Linn says. ‘Let me finish. Look, here.’ She points at the laptop screen where they’ve googled the card meaning. ‘ “The Queen of Cups tends to think with her heart, rather than her head. She may lack common sense and rationality but she is highly intuitive and sometimes psychic and dreamy. Similarly, if you are finding that the logical approach is not working, then the Queen of Cups encourages you to follow your heart and not your mind. You may be required to turn inward and explore your emotions about a particular situation.” So, looks like you need to be following your heart and not your head.’

Even leans back and considers the card carefully. He doesn’t notice Isak rolling his eyes aggressively as he pours them all another glass of water.

‘Ok,’ Even concedes. ‘Now let’s read Isak’s.’

‘No, no, no,’ Isak says, holding a palm up to each of them. ‘No readings. No, thank you.’

‘Why?’ Linn asks, challengingly. ‘You scared?’

‘ _Please_ ,’ Isak retorts. ‘I’m not falling for that. I just don’t trust you to read my tarot properly.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Even says, ‘you think you can do a better job?’

Isak sniffs, unable to back down, as always. ‘Of course.’

‘Prove it,’ Even says. Those words bring Isak back to that day when he dared Even to train for the marathon with him. And based on the look in Even’s eyes, he knows that too.

‘Ugh, fine,’ Isak says, holding out his hand for the deck.

‘Ah ah,’ Even says. ‘I’ll shuffle and spread. You can “read,” _if_ you can read,’ he adds with a knowing smirk.

Isak rolls his eyes and waves Even on. ‘Yeah ok, whatever.’

‘What kind of spread do you want?’ Even asks.

‘Huh?’

‘Past/Present/Future? Problem/Cause/Solution? Or do you want like a Celtic Cross? Or a Druid’s Star? Or—’

‘Fucking hell,’ Isak mutters. ‘Just…fine, do it for me.’

Even smiles fondly at him while Linn facepalms. ‘Honestly Valtersen,’ she says, ‘you’re missing the whole _point_ —’

‘Ok, ok,’ Isak concedes, ‘Past/Present/Future, then.’

Even nods and shuffles the deck. There are a few moments of silence except for the sound of the cards moving and Even’s quiet breathing. Linn is already starting to doze on the sofa, while Isak is sitting crosslegged on the floor by the coffee table. As usual, Even is next to him.

‘Alright,’ Even says, laying the deck on the table. ‘Draw your three cards and set them face down next to each other.’

Isak suppresses a sigh, and takes three cards in succession from the top of the deck, and places them facedown in a line, as instructed.

‘First card, represents your past and all accumulated karma,’ Even announces. ‘Flip it over.’

As Isak reaches out to flip over the first card, he understands the appeal of tarot. It’s another kind of belief, something that gives you comfort, that allows you to impose order where there is none. And he reluctantly concedes a value in that.

The first card is—

‘The Hermit,’ Even says, and then pauses for a moment, before asserting, ‘Seems apt.’

‘Hey!’ Isak protests, playfully punching his arm. Even smiles at him, though, so he can’t be mad for long.

‘The Hermit. As the card of your past. So…’ Even begins, fixing his gaze on the card. ‘I’m guessing, you did some major soul searching at some point recently. Began a journey of re-evaluating your goals, and it led you to isolate yourself from others.’

Isak tries not to get affected. He does. But the painful accuracy of the card is unmistakeable. As Linn snores softly on the sofa, he steals a glance at Even, who is in turn gauging his reaction.

‘Sound about right?’ he asks gently.

Isak knows he won’t push. He knows he can trust Even. And maybe if he talks about it more it’ll be less painful.

‘Med school,’ Isak whispers.

Even’s eyes widen in realisation. ‘We don’t have to talk about it if—’

‘No,’ Isak interrupts. ‘I want you to know.’

He takes a sip of water and stares at his hands, gathering the courage to explain. ‘I was always good at biology. I started med school right after Nissen because I figured, this is the one thing I’m good at, better make the most of it. And I was top of my class in uni. I was doing rounds way sooner than I should have, because I was so ahead of the curve, and scrubbing into surgeries in my fourth year. But …  I started to question what on earth I was doing there.’

‘Why?’

‘Because,’ Isak starts, and _wills_ himself to continue, ‘one of our patients bled out on the table. And that’s when it really hit me. Medicine isn’t about having all the right answers, it’s not about being the best in the class, it’s not about the applause. It’s about saving lives. And I didn’t really understand that. And someone died. All that was left of them in the hospital was bloody gauze, crying relatives, and a mountain of paperwork.’

Even lets out a long breath and stares blankly at his feet. The reaction isn’t unexpected, but Isak realises he’s never actually told anyone this before. The closest he got was in the bathtub with Linn, but even then he elided the full truth. Why he told Even first, he’s not sure. But it’s too late to take back now.

‘Isak—I’m so sorry you went through that.’

That’s when Isak realises he’s started to cry, silently. No sobs or grimaces, just fast, soft tears spilling over. ‘Oh,’ he says, as he brings his sleeves to his eyes, ‘I didn’t—sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise,’ Even says quietly.

‘Anyway. Yeah. I dropped out soon after. I couldn’t hack that kind of pressure. And here we are.’

He’s wiping the tears from his face and trying to get back to normal, when Even leans forward and wraps Isak in a hug. It’s almost too much.

Even doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to say anything comforting, and that in itself is a relief. ‘Ugh, this is why I isolate myself,’ Isak jokes. But Even doesn’t laugh. He just holds Isak a little tighter.

When he pulls back, he keeps a hand on Isak’s neck and caresses his jaw with his thumb. ‘You’re so brave, Isak Valtersen,’ he says, his eyes far too sincere for Isak to keep contact with, ‘ _so_ brave.’

For a long moment Isak worries Even is going to lean forward and kiss him, but Even instead leans forward and kisses his forehead. It’s over before Isak can protest.

‘Alright,’ Isak says lamely. ‘What’s my “present”?’

‘Let’s find out,’ Even says, with a warm smile.

Isak flips over the second card and reads aloud, ‘The World. But why is it upside down?’

‘Trump,’ Even deadpans.

‘Ha,’ Isak says, ‘but really. What does it mean?’

Picking up _The World_ card, Even peruses the image carefully and then lays it back down on the table. ‘Well, with tarot, if a card is reversed, it usually means something is slightly off. More often than not it signifies something like blocked energy, or an overabundance of something, or absence of something, or repression. It’s not just the card’s normal meaning in opposition. Does that make sense?’

‘Not really,’ Isak says, ‘but whatever. What does The World in reverse mean for my present?’

‘The World card—when it’s upright—usually represents completion, accomplishment, fulfilment. In reverse, I think it signifies a delay. Like, that your goal is postponed because you need to devote more time and energy to the transition? You’re nearly there, basically, but you have to persevere a little more.’

Isak nods. It feels right, though he doesn’t know how to pinpoint why. He does feel like he’s closer to what he wants, but not quite.

‘Ok,’ he says, ‘we’re getting warmer. What’s my Future?’ He flips over the last card.

‘Oooh Two of Wands,’ Even says. ‘That’s a great card.’

‘Why?’ Isak asks, as he inspects it further.

‘Two of Wands is the discovery card. Like, stepping outside your comfort zone and pursuing your aspirations. This is the card of like, moving continents for a relationship, or applying for the promotion you want, or taking up an Olympic sport—it’s such a promising card, Isak.’

Even is so genuinely thrilled that Isak can’t help but feel some excitement by proxy. And the cards did all tend towards a positive outcome—pursuing his dreams. The promise of success. The Big Decisions.

The room is dim with only the reading lamp on for light, and the night already pitch-black outside. Isak looks up from the cards to where Linn is stirring on the sofa.

‘Damn,’ she croaks. ‘I’m tired. I’m gonna call a taxi.’

‘You can stay if you want,’ Isak offers.

‘Nah. I can only sleep in my own bed,’ she says. ‘But thanks anyway.’

Not long after, Linn’s phone calls to announce the taxi downstairs. She hugs both of the boys—much to Isak’s surprise—and texts Isak when she gets home: ‘ _In bed. Thanks for hanging out. Love you._ ’

Isak is so touched by the text he almost doesn’t know how to reply. But it’s the middle of the night and he reminds himself how vulnerable Linn might feel by opening up like that. So he replies: ‘ _Love you too, Linn. Let’s run away from straight bars again_ _soon_.’

‘I should head out, too,’ Even says, as Isak types out the text.

‘Oh,’ Isak says, as he sends it. ‘I—you don’t have to.’

‘We have to be at work in…’ Even consults his watch. ‘Six hours. Fuck.’

‘Yeah, just sleep here,’ Isak says, ‘it’s honestly ok. I’ll take the couch.’

Even scoffs. ‘As if, Isak. This is your place. Either I’m leaving or I’m sleeping on the couch.’

‘Fine we’ll both sleep on the couch then,’ Isak retorts stubbornly. They’re standing next to his kitchen sink, both with their arms folded in mirrored pig-headedness.

But the glib reply turns into something else, as Even’s face betrays some of his thoughts— _it wouldn’t be the first time we slept together_.

Then Even mutters,

 

اللهم لا تعلق قلبي الضعيف بما ليس لي

 

Isak, understanding none of it, can’t help asking, ‘When _did_ you learn Arabic?’

With a small smile, Even raises his eyebrows and bites his bottom lip, ‘It’s a long story. But in terms of “when,” it was my last year in Bakka. Though Mutta still gives me pointers in how to curse properly.’

Isak feels a strange turn at the realisation that Even doesn’t just have a surface understanding of Arabic. He’s fluent. And Isak’s surprised at how much that’s working for him.

‘Say something else,’ he says, his eyes fixed on the floor now. There’s something embarrassing about allowing himself to do this.

‘In Arabic?’ Even asks.

Still a little too aroused for words, Isak nods and waits for him to comply. Slowly, Even brings a hand to Isak’s face and tilts it up so they’re looking eye-to-eye. It’s almost too much. Isak can still smell stale beer and cigarettes off of him, but he knows Even has sobered up completely. The way he’s staring at him proves that alone.

Then Even softly says,

**يا روحي**

 

And Isak knows just from the sound of it that he doesn’t need a translation. Not from the way Even says it, or the way his voice wavers on the last syllable.

The moment lingers. Even doesn’t move closer or back away, he just holds his palm to Isak’s cheek and repeats it, quietly, looking more vulnerable than Isak has ever seen him.

‘I like it,’ Isak says, and he can’t believe he just said that aloud.

‘You like Arabic?’ Even asks, moving his hand away from Isak, now. The moment’s gone. Isak could kick himself for being so reluctant to it.

‘I like you _speaking_ Arabic,’ Isak mumbles, his cheeks aflame in embarrassment.

There’s a pause, where Even seems to consider this, before he hums in reply and then turns to the couch. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘we should try and sleep.’

He keeps his back to Isak, and Isak doesn’t begrudge him that. He was brave tonight where Isak was spineless.

‘Yeah,’ Isak says. ‘Or—’

Even whips around at that. ‘Or?’ he asks hopefully.

‘I’m not really that tired,’ Isak admits. ‘But there’s one thing that usually helps me get to sleep.’

Even raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re reneging on the one-night-deal?’

The offer of weed that Isak had been about to put forward dies on his tongue, when he realises what Even is saying. ‘No!’ he says, mortified, ‘I—no, that’s not—’

‘Oh,’ Even says, backing up. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have—that was inappropriate.’ 

‘It’s—it’s ok,’ Isak says, ‘I mean, it’s not like we… anyway, no. Um, no. I meant, I have some weed.’

‘ _Oh,_ ’ Even says, following his train of thought finally. ‘Oh,’ he repeats, happily, taking up Isak’s offer.

\--

Isak knows it was a bad idea. He _knows_. But it’s 4am now, they’re both baked on his living room floor and trading theories about the afterlife and the universe. Isak’s already proselytised at length about his parallel-universe-theory and Even admits his trepidation. But he also offers his theory that the afterlife is malleable.

‘If you believe in it, that’s what it is. That’s what it… becomes. You know?’

‘No I don’t know, Even. That makes no sense. It has to be something _intrinsically_. It’s not a video game that you can create level by level.’

‘It kind of is though!’ he argues. ‘You ever read Terry Pratchett growing up? Death is a character in it. And one of his biggest problems is that whatever people believe in is what happens. So he has to like, construct all these different experiences because he’s the concept of Death, and he is whatever you believe him to be.’

‘I _belieeeeeve_ that gendering Death is … kind of fucked up,’ Isak says proudly.

The burst of laughter that Even lets out makes Isak’s heart sing.

He feels light, he feels fuzzy, he feels warm. The last thing he remembers before he drifts off is the sensation of something holding his hand.

\--

When Isak wakes up, it’s to his phone ringing and vibrating loudly. He groans in pain at the screeching sound, and throws his phone against the floor by accident in his haste to return to silence. That’s when he realises he’s on his bed. Tucked in. 

He looks around and sees his phone plugged into his charger, a glass of water on his bedside table, his work clothes folded on top of The Chair Clothes Pile. He’s wearing his shirt from last night but his jeans and socks are at the bottom of the bed.

All of a sudden he remembers that just a few hours before, Even was in his apartment. He rouses himself grumpily and painfully from his bed, struggling into the kitchen/living space, and sees that the couch is … empty. And then he glances at his clock. 9.45am. He was supposed to be at work nearly an hour ago.

‘Fuck!’ he shouts, running back into his room, his mind now focused entirely on getting dressed and out the door as quickly as humanly possible.

He makes it to work in record time—just under 40 minutes—and finds Even and Anders in the archive room, typing away.

‘Morning, sunshine,’ Anders says happily. ‘You look like shit.’

‘Well, it was kind of a long night,’ Isak snaps. His gaze drifts over to Even, who’s welcoming him in with a nod and a shy smile. He nods back, hoping that Even can infer his gratitude for last night.

It’s only then, as he looks at Even, that he realises he fell asleep on the living room floor. But woke up in his bed. _Did Even—did he actually_ carry _—_

Anders, as usual, interrupts. ‘I hope you recover in time for Thursday,’ he says.

‘Thursday?’ Isak repeats. ‘What’s Thursday?’

‘Day after Wednesday,’ Anders says, with a self-satisfied guffaw. ‘Just kidding. My folks have a cabin up near Geilo. I’m bringing the guys there for a lads-only weekend. Even’s in, but only on condition that you’re there too, so we can have some ~Bro Bonding~!’

The cold tremor of repugnance and anxiety that trills through Isak is overwhelming. He looks to Even and mouths the words _Bro Bonding?_ with as much disgust as he can express while Anders’ back is turned.

Even raises his hands a little in a gesture of surrender and mouths back, _Minister_ , while he points surreptitiously at Anders.

‘It’s a three-bedroom cabin,’ Anders continues, ‘so we’ll all pile in together.’ He returns to the desk with a new box of files. ‘You two are chill with sharing a bed, right? You’re not homos or anything,’ he adds, with a dismissive chuckle.

Even gives Isak an apologetic glance before he turns to Anders with an almost sincere smile. ‘Sounds chill, man. Count us in.’

‘Yeah,’ Isak says with as much fake enthusiasm as he can muster. ‘Great plan.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations of Arabic used:
> 
>  
> 
> اللهم لا تعلق قلبي الضعيف بما ليس لي  
> Oh Allah, don't let my weak heart get attached to what's not mine
> 
>  
> 
> يا روحي  
> Beloved (literally, ‘Oh my soul’)
> 
> \--
> 
> I honestly cannot resist a cabin episode. They're just so iconic. And i reread one of my favourite fics this week--Forget The World by verlore_poplap (orphan_account). Can't say that the next chapter is going to be like /their cabin fic, though. Mostly it's going to be Isak and Even trying to figure out what they are to each other now, how they can operate, if they can be friends, if they can be more than friends.
> 
> Even's admissions in this chapter hit close to home for me. You can accuse me of a bit of self-insertion there, but honestly I wish we could have heard more from canon Even about his pansexuality. It's not the same experience as being gay, and I know I would've come around a lot quicker to self-acceptance if I had any kind of alternative template for queerness. Do any of you feel the same way? I'm always here for anyone who's struggling with this stuff. SKAM was a huge help to me in this way--just Isak saying 'Only you can feel what you feel' made me so much more at ease with myself, the same way it did Even (in that glorious, glorious scene!).
> 
> As always--kudos and comments make my day brighter and this fic better. i hope you liked this update <3


	7. Isak, please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isak and Even go for another run, and have a serious talk. Then they go on the cabin trip to Geilo with Anders and his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few translations in this chapter in case you need them:
> 
>  
> 
> Det finnes ikke dårlig vær, bare dårlige klær. (There is no bad weather, only bad clothing.)
> 
> FRI – foreningen for kjønns- og seksualitetsmangfold (FREE - The Society for Gender and Sexual Diversity)
> 
> \--
> 
> Thanks to the incredible Haveyouever for reading through a draft of this <3 elsker deg.  
> And to TabithaAnne for always cheerleading, and giving excellent guidance. <3
> 
> This is 10K of feelings. Hope you enjoy <3

 

It’s drizzling. Isak stands outside the National Theatre, arms folded, hands tucked, shifting from foot to foot as the clinging mist quickly starts to drench him. He feels it start to run down his legs, and he regrets wearing his tight running shorts -- but he had an important decision to make between showing more or less skin, and he opted for more. The reasons behind that decision are obvious -- even to himself. 

 

He wants Even. He tries to push the thought away. He tries to push away all the thoughts about how much he likes it when Even tells him a terrible joke, how much he likes Even’s glasses, how much he likes the sound of Even putting snus under his lip, how much he likes Even’s hands, how much he likes the taste of--

 

He sighs to himself. His thoughts always go back to that night in a painfully predictable way. Besides, he can still feel how Even touched him everywhere, and then he remembers with a plummeting dread the Monday morning when Even explained in exact detail how he’s not ready to see anyone. Plus, their contracts. Plus, their friendship. Plus, if Isak’s being honest, he’s scared to death of being that vulnerable with someone again.

 

But Christ, he misses Even. And he resents more than ever the stark loneliness that permeates his flat, the silence at night, the absence of any interruption. It’s just him, and his thoughts, and the cold wind that whistles under the windowsill. 

 

So, every night he listens to the nothingness, and before he goes to sleep, he lies there in bed and remembers how it felt to be in Even’s.

 

\--

 

_ ‘If we’ve only got one night,’ Even says, pressing another kiss into Isak’s inner thigh, ‘I’m making the most of it.’ _

 

_ \-- _

 

_ The feeling of Even’s hands inside him ... He’s perfect.  _

 

_ \-- _

 

_ ‘I’d kiss you like this,’ Even says, drawing Isak’s nipple softly between his lips and sucking hard, tonguing it. _

 

_ \-- _

 

That last memory in particular makes Isak’s face burn red and his heart jump in double-time. A part of him is still glad they never kissed. Kisses are personal, kisses are intimate. Sex, though? Sex can be anonymous.

 

He asks himself, while the drizzle increases around him, gathering in puddles at his feet, if he’s fully processed the fact that he has had sex for the first time. That it was with Even. That it was a one-night stand. And he knows deep down the answer is  _ no _ . It’ll take a while for that to really filter through. But he doesn’t regret a thing.

 

He tries to blow some errant curls out of his eyes but it’s a useless endeavour when they’re already wet. 

 

Grumpier than he was when he got back from work, or when he begrudgingly put his workout clothes on to go on a 7k for the first time, he curses the weather again, cringes at the feeling of water running down his neck, and checks his phone.

 

He knows Even wouldn’t bail last minute, so he must be delayed. Not that Isak’s gonna care about that when he complains loudly at Even for making him wait in the rain. Not that Isak could care about anything except spending time with Even.

 

It’s a darker dusk than usual with the overcast clouds, and because it’s already 6.30pm on a Tuesday night, everything is shut, so though Isak scans the plaza for somewhere to take shelter, there’s nothing to do but stay waiting in the rain.

 

At that moment, however, he sees a figure jogging through the mist, neon yellow headband in place. He knows that gait anywhere.

 

‘Halla! Unnskyld,’ Even says as he nears. ‘Fucking tram was delayed.’

 

Isak shrugs. ‘It’s just bad weather. Let’s get going. The sooner we run, the sooner we get inside.’

 

Even stills at the abruptness of Isak’s tone. He shifts from one foot to the other, as if gearing up to speak, and Isak looks at him expectantly.

 

‘Well, yeah. About that--’ Even begins, his voice unsure. ‘It’s promised to turn. I just checked and the forecast says this might grow into a thunderstorm.’

 

‘Whatever, if it does we’ll just hop in a taxi home. But we’re out here already, we might as well try.’ Isak isn’t certain why he is so insistent on this. It isn’t just about being assiduous in training. It’s something else he can’t quite figure out. And he doesn’t really want to.

 

The way Even looks, though, his fringe curling over his headband, and sticking to his forehead, the way his shirt is already sticking to his shoulders -- Isak misses him even more. 

 

He curses that they ever touched each other. It hurts not to do it again. It hurts knowing they can’t.

 

‘Is there a point to warming up?’ Even asks, raising his arms above his head to elongate his lower back, in his usual oblique stretch pose.

 

‘Well, there’s a point to stretching out, but “warming up” is optimistic,’ Isak sighs, as he folds into a forward bend.

 

‘I can’t help but think of what my mama would say if she heard us grumbling like this,’ Even says with a smile in his voice.

 

‘What’s that?’

 

‘ _ Det finnes ikke dårlig vær, bare dårlige klær _ ,’ Even announces, and Isak rolls his eyes, but doesn’t dignify it with a response. He notices Even glancing at him in concern from the corner of his eye.

 

They do some more perfunctory, brief, stretches, before Isak gruffly says, ‘Come on,’ and starts to jog away from Even in the direction of the harbour.

 

He knows he’s being snappy because he’s still entirely focused on what it was like to be between Even’s legs, because he’s terrified Johanne will find them out, because this cabin trip Anders is forcing them on is a terrible idea, and he dreads sharing a bed with Even and not being able to do anything _ in it _ . But his defences are the only flimsy thing between him and letting Even see the worst parts of himself.

 

They run in silence for the first kilometer, which is marked by passing the  Rådhus, where Even suddenly slows to a walk. 

 

‘What are you doing?’ Isak asks, jogging backwards to face him, now.

 

‘My legs are tired,’ Even says, ‘you can run on if you want, I’ll catch up.’

 

‘That kind of defeats the purpose of training together,’ Isak says. His vision is blurred by the water dripping from his hair into his eyes, which he tries to slick back out of his way. Even’s eyes follows the movement.

 

A moment passes between the two. They’re still stepping quickly across from Aker Brygge, and the lights reflect in the disturbed harbour waters. A sharp breeze comes in from the fjord.

 

‘Are you finding this as hard as I am?’ Even asks, breaking the icy silence.

 

‘We’re only 1k in,’ Isak rebuts, with a smirk. ‘Six to go. You need to pace yourself.’

 

‘No,’ Even replies, shaking his head, his breath coming in harsh pants. ‘I mean -- are you finding  _ this  _ as hard as I am?’ He gestures between them, and Isak realises what he means, now.

 

He stops jogging backwards, and slows to a walk. They both slow to a standstill.

 

They’re just a foot apart, and their hot breath forms clouds in the cool air.

 

‘Because the tram wasn’t delayed,’ Even admits. ‘I just couldn’t decide if I could bear to see you like this again. Not after-- not after Saturday night.’

 

The breeze eases and for a moment Isak isn’t so cold. But their breath is still coming out between them in puffs. He doesn’t know how to reply.

 

‘It gets harder and harder not to be with you. Not only that, but you’re wearing those _fucking_ shorts,’ Even adds, attempting a joke, but it falls flat.

 

His words strike a note of fear in Isak. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say. It’s far too real to be this exposed, and he claws back a sense of distance:

 

‘We shouldn’t have this conversation now,’ Isak says, his words coming out stilted and harsh. ‘Let’s talk when we’re done running.’

 

He’s all too aware that he’s figuratively and literally running away from this problem. But nothing about their current situation -- cold, tired, frustrated -- suggests it’s a good time or place to talk about their predicament. Isak wonders where all his bravery went.

 

For a second, it seems Even is going to argue with him, but the rain gets heavier, and he shivers. With a swift nod, he starts jogging, and Isak falls into step.

 

Not long after they reach  S ørenga, the skies really open. They’re soaked in minutes. Still, they have little choice but to finish now, as Isak mutters across to Even, they’re not getting any wetter. 

 

Isak forces himself not to look at him, the way his hair sticks to his neck, the way his calves flex when he reaches a quick pace.

 

The last 2 kilometers -- bringing them behind Oslo Central station, up through Grønland and Tøyen, past the Botanisk hage, until they finally reach Sofienberg church -- are brutal. They’re both wheezing and panting and protesting every step, but they finally get to the church, where they each bend over to brace themselves against its eastern wall and catch their breath. The spot is mildly sheltered by a grand old oak tree, and they take a few minutes to stretch out their backs, and calm their racing hearts.

 

Then, the sky lights up with a bright sheet of lightning, followed only a few seconds later by an echoing crack of thunder.

 

Isak glances around when the momentary light appears, and upon hearing the thunder, he sees Even, in his peripheral vision, put his face into his hands. Over the sound of the heavy downpour and the thunder, Isak has to shout, ‘ _ You can’t run home in this, just shower at mine! We’ll wait until the storm passes! _ ’

 

Even looks up at him, and Isak sees the unmasked fear in his eyes. Even shouts back, ‘ _ I can’t hear you! _ ’

 

Putting his hands over his mouth, Isak yells again, ‘ _ Just come with me _ !’

 

Then, another bolt of lightning appears in the sky, and Even visibly jumps. He’s shaking. Before he can try to insist he’s not, Isak grabs his wrist and starts running out of the park, across the street, and down towards his own flat, a few hundred metres away.

 

Isak’s hands are trembling when he takes his keys out of his pocket, and he struggles to fit his house key into the lock.

 

Another frighteningly loud crack of thunder begins and Even starts shouting, ‘ _ Isak please _ !’ and Isak finally gets the key in. They both tumble inside. Isak slams the door shut behind them.

 

They both take a minute to breathe, and Even drops to sit against the wall, his head between his knees. His breath is ragged, and it sounds like he’s close to tears. For a while, Isak hovers by the door, unsure whether or not to offer help. But when Even wraps his arms around his own legs and starts to shake, Isak crouches down next to him and caresses his neck.

 

‘Hey, hey, it’s ok,’ he whispers, ‘you’re safe. You’re safe now.’

 

He’s not sure why Even is having such an adverse reaction to what’s a fairly normal thunderstorm, but the way Even’s trembling tells him it’s more than a ‘normal thunderstorm’ to him. So Isak keeps smoothing his hair back, lightly running his fingers through it, trying his best to soothe him.

 

Even’s still shaking.

 

After five minutes or so, Even seems to calm, and he wordlessly stands back up and starts walking up the stairs to Isak’s flat. Isak follows, unlocks the door, and leads Even by the hand through his bedroom, to the living room/kitchen. He pours them both a glass of water, and then goes about making two peanut butter sandwiches with apple chunks. They eat them in silence, standing next to the sink.

 

At one point Isak nearly gives Even a hug, but thinks better of it at the last minute. But once the moment passes, he wishes he had wrapped his arms around him and given him some comfort. 

 

Even jolts at another terrible thunderstrike, and Isak puts down the rest of his sandwich. He walks over to the two windows facing the park and draws the shutters. He then puts on the fairy lights Eskild insisted on pinning around the bookshelf next to the couch. It’s only a dim light, which feels less intrusive than the overhead lamp.

 

‘Sit,’ he says quietly, pointing at the couch. Then he goes into his bedroom, grabs them a towel each from his closet, and brings them back. He hands one to Even, and they both sit down in the near-darkness, trying to dry off somewhat.

 

The sound of the heavy rain outside hitting the pavement is loud enough to make Isak wonder if there’s even a point in putting some music on. But he has to fill the silence somehow.

 

‘Not a fan of storms, then?’ he asks, aiming for levity, unsure if it would be welcome.

 

Even doesn’t respond at once. He stares blankly at the shuttered window for a moment.

 

‘My mother got hit by lightning when she was 12.’

 

The announcement makes Isak’s blood run cold. He doesn’t know what to say in response. Clearly she survived if she had Even, but the reality of getting struck by lightning is too terrifying for Isak to really comprehend.

 

‘She’s fine, now, of course. It happened on  _ morfar _ ’s farm, out near Lillehammer. She went herding sheep with him one night and when they were counting them inside the barn, lightning struck. She doesn’t remember a thing. Just one second she was on “twenty-six,” and the next she was being shaken by  _ morfar  _ who was crying over her, thinking she was dead.’

 

Isak starts to understand Even’s fear, now. The possibility of actually being struck by lightning had never occurred him. It just seemed so far-fetched. They were in a city -- surely it would be attracted to nearby buildings or scaffolding or lampposts or the hundreds of other things that could operate as lightning rods.

 

Even continues, ‘All the lamps in the barn had splintered. All the sheep were on their side, unconscious or dazed. Somehow, no one died. My mama still has a lightning scar all down her right shoulder.’

 

At that, another rumble of thunder growls from outside, but Even keeps talking.

 

‘Anytime there was a thunderstorm as I was growing up, my mama would draw the blinds on every window in the house, shut out the dog and cat, unplug every electrical appliance, gather us all into one room, and we weren’t allowed to leave until the storm passed. At first it seemed ridiculous, then it was kind of fun, but the older I got the more I understood how terrified my mama was. And somewhere along the way I started to feel like it happened to me, too.’

 

Isak wants to tell him that he’s never been afraid of storms. That he’s always kind of enjoyed them. That there’s something so soothing about the sound of heavy rain outside while you’re lying in bed, and the spectacle of sheet lightning can be so comforting when you’re watching it from far away. But he sees how Even’s still shaken from being out in the middle of the tempest, and the guilt rises.

 

‘I’m sorry, I never would’ve insisted we kept running--’

 

‘Isak, don’t worry,’ Even interrupts. ‘I agreed to it. I wanted to know if I could do it. Both run 7k and move around in a storm. And, well. Looks like I can.’

There’s an unbearable tension in the room. Even seems close to snapping under the weight of what he’s just told Isak. And Isak doesn’t feel like he can comfort Even in any real way, not without touching him again, and that seems far too close to tempting fate right now.

‘We both need to take a shower,’ Isak says instead.

‘I’ll get a taxi home,’ Even adds.

‘No,’ Isak says, ‘don’t be ridiculous. What taxi would take you? You’re soaked to the bone. Besides, you’ll probably have to wait half an hour at least for one to get here, and you could easily get a cold in that time. Just take a shower here.’

He knows why he’s insistent this time. It’s not just the impulse to care for Even. He doesn’t want him to leave.

Even considers Isak’s offer for a moment, and finally concedes. 

He looks up at Isak and asks, ‘You first or me first?’

‘You first,’ Isak says.

So Even goes first. 

The shower is in Isak’s tiny bathroom, stuck behind Isak’s front door, just the other side of his bedroom from the kitchen/living room. There’s barely enough room for one person in there, between the toilet, sink and shower. And Isak tries valiantly not to remember what Even looks like naked, or imagine Even naked, in his shower.

When Even gets out, Isak is waiting, sitting on the edge of his bed. Even emerges from the bathroom, steam rising from his skin, the towel wrapped around his waist, his hair damp and his skin pink. Isak’s eyes linger on his waist, the way his hips taper in, the hair from his navel down to-- but then Isak snaps his eyes up and he catches Even’s curious gaze. 

Clearing his throat, Isak stands up, walks past him into the bathroom, and puts the water up to its highest heat. He undresses and drops his wet running gear on top of the pile Even left. Before he steps in to the shower, he sees in the mirror a message Even has written in the condensation:

_ Don’t worry if you miss a gym session. Everything will work out. _

Isak tries not to laugh, and fails. Despite being the most wound up he’s ever been, the joke works, and he laughs. Fucking Even and his fucking puns. Isak almost wipes it away, but decides against it, knowing it’ll stay there now every time the mirror steams over. And he selfishly wants the reminder that Even’s been there.

He steps into the shower, into the nearly too-hot water stream, and his mind immediately flashes an image of Even underneath him, sweaty and desperate, and lavishing praise in his ear.

_ Fuck Isak, oh fuck. Yeah just like that... Oh my-- that’s it, baby. _

Isak could cry with the frustration. He can’t act on his feelings. He can’t. But he’s already got a semi just at the memory. He considers jerking off to alleviate some of the tension, but he doesn’t want Even to suspect. 

Does he?

Just as quickly as that thought occurs, Isak shakes it off. They still have to have the talk Even started at the  Rådhus , after all. He stays in the shower long after washing himself, just to soak up the warmth in his muscles. Or to postpone the inevitable.

When he finally leaves, and gets dressed, he heads back into the living space where he finds Even, dressed in the spare sweatpants, t-shirt and hoodie he’d left out. And his heart skips a beat.

They’re both bone tired and achey after the run, and the storm is nowhere close to dissipating. And there’s nowhere to go. The awkwardness in the room speaks volumes, especially as Isak puts the kettle on for some tea. 

‘So. Talk?’ Isak asks still standing next to the countertop.

Even shrugs from where he’s sitting on the other side of the room. ‘Yeah. We should.’

‘Where should we start?’

‘Well, those shorts have to go.’

Isak huffs a laugh, and Even shows a small smile, too. And Isak wants him even more.

‘It was dumb of me to wear them out in that weather,’ Isak admits.

‘It was irresponsible. I could’ve died,’ Even jokes, and Isak lets out a loud laugh, fuelled by nerves and the relief of him breaking the tension. They both laugh in giggly bursts, suddenly aware that they’re fighting this battle in the wrong way, when they both care so much.

The kettle boils, and Isak pours them both a cup of hot tea with lots of honey. He leaves the two mugs on the floor next the couch and then retrieves the duvet from his bed so they’re not so cold.

As they finally settle on the couch, wrapped in the duvet, holding their tea, they both know they’ve waited long enough to talk. Isak looks over at Even and he looks up from his tea, and they wordlessly acknowledge that it’s now or never. The storm has only intensified since they both showered, and the light in the room is dim enough that Isak can just about make out Even’s face. The darkness is soothing.

‘I can’t stop thinking about you,’ Even says. ‘It’s pointless to say otherwise.’

Isak lets out a long exhale. He’s not sure he’ll leave this conversation in one piece. And he  _ wants _ , he wants Even so much it’s overwhelming.

‘I--’ Isak begins, but Even interrupts him.

‘One night of sex with you was-- probably one of the best nights of my life, but it’s … it’s just meaningless if I can’t be with you, in a real way. And I thought, y’know, before, that it could just be a one-time hook-up and that would be the end of it, maybe. But it’s not.’ 

Even stares down into his mug and Isak stares at the hands laced around it. Eye contact now would be too much. The words on their own are too much. Even’s echoing the deeper parts of Isak’s thought process and the threat of imminent pain is palpable.

‘It’s not for me, either,’ Isak says, quietly. ‘But -- we already know this is going nowhere. You’ve been clear with me that you’re not ready for a relationship. Especially with a guy. You’re still working on some internalised homophobia, and that’s fine, Even, it is, you need to get out of that maze of self-hatred in your own mind before anything can happen. But aside from that, there’s our jobs to consider--’

‘Two things on that,’ Even says, before taking a sip of tea. ‘I-- I haven’t had the undermining thoughts with you that I had with Mikael or with any of the other guys I’ve hooked up with. They’re just not there. I’ve been waiting for the landslide of internalised bullshit to descend on me, but all I feel for you is just -- want. Unconditional, unintentional, unfiltered  _ want _ . In any way I can have you.’

Isak’s face flushes red, he can  _ feel  _ the heat in his cheeks. It’s not just the flattery. It’s the awareness that this is more serious than either of them anticipated. This isn’t a casual fling anymore. This holds their hearts in the balance.

‘And there’s an obvious solution we keep missing about the no-dating clause,’ Even adds.

‘What’s that?’

‘We can just … not tell anyone.’

Isak scoffs and drinks the last of his tea. When he puts the mug down on the floor, he looks over to Even and realises in the silence that Even wasn’t kidding.

‘You… you’re serious,’ Isak observes.

‘I am. Think about it. Here are the facts: we work together, every day, with unmistakable sexual tension between us--’

‘That’s just a  _ bit  _ presumptuous to assume--’

‘--and we’ve slept together, thinking maybe that would get it out of our system when in fact it has served only to  _ increase  _ how much we want to be with each other--’

‘--Again, can’t help but notice that you’ve entirely bypassed my say in this--’

‘-- _ and  _ we’re not a threat to our manager or the scheme or the Ministry if we wanna kiss and date and fuck in our spare time. We’re low-level employees, we transcribe boring nonsense every day for work, we are risking nothing tangible. We’re not in the public eye, and we’re not handling sensitive information: we’re not a threat!’

‘Speak for yourself--’

‘ _ Isak _ ,  _ please _ .’

Even’s voice is desperate in the dark. Despite wanting to ease the anxiety in the room with some jokes, Isak can’t bring himself to dismiss the sound of Even being vulnerable.

Still, he can’t respond to what Even is proposing. He’s been brave before, demanding they acknowledge their feelings, but right now, he’s smothered by his fear. 

‘I’m listening,’ he says softly. ‘I’m not trying to dismiss you. I’m just scared.’

He feels the warmth of Even’s hand brush along his palm until their fingers are interlaced.

‘Yeah, I’m scared, too.’

The admission drives the breath from Isak’s lungs. 

Silence and noise. The two extremes push Isak to fall from one into the other. To be silent, or to speak. To do something or to do nothing. 

Another roll of thunder splits the sky.

Before his mind can catch up with his body, Isak is straddling Even on the couch, still under the duvet, and he’s seeking out Even’s face with his hands.

When he’s found, and caressed, Even’s cheeks between his palms, he doesn’t hesitate to lean forward and press their lips together. 

And it feels like too much. It feels like fear and shock and astonishing relief. 

It feels like,  _ finally _ . 

He pulls back at once, to gauge Even’s reaction, but Even’s lips chase his own, and they’re kissing again. 

He kisses him. And he kisses him. And he kisses him. And Even keeps kissing him back.

At one point, Even pulls back to catch his breath: he lets out a subdued,  _ fy faen _ .

It’s gentle, fervent and tender, and Isak can barely breathe. It’s just lips on lips and he’s already squirming inside. Then Even’s tongue licks along his lips and Isak groans as he opens his mouth to let it in. 

The kissing isn’t just kissing now, they’re clinging to each other and moaning and sighing against each other. He’s never felt a kiss like this. And all those years of waiting to find the right person to kiss him feel so, so worth it.

His mind is a blank, simply overtaken by the feeling of being in Even’s arms.

Isak drags his hands through Even’s still-damp hair and starts to peek his tongue out, too, lightly licking along Even’s upper lip, kissing him again, and then brushing it against Even’s tongue the next time their mouths open. And with that sensation -- tongue against tongue -- Isak lets out a broken breath.

Even’s hands are resting on his lower back, underneath his t-shirt, his fingers pressing into his skin. Then one hand curls around Isak’s neck and pulls him closer still, as Even’s mouth moves down to Isak’s throat, where he starts to nip and suck and bite at his Adam’s apple. Isak realises he’s leaving a hickey there, in one of his most sensitive spots, and one of the most visible, and he whines.

But he remembers they haven’t solved anything - that he impulsively threw himself on Even and started attacking his face with his mouth. 

‘Even-- Even, wait--’

‘Please don’t change your mind,’ Even mumbles against his throat.

Isak doesn’t try to argue with that. ‘I’m not-- but, we haven’t finished talking. We shouldn’t do anything until … until we know what we’re doing.’

He’s inarticulate, but in his defence, he just felt Even’s hard dick pressing up against the inside of his thigh.

Even pulls back and gazes up at Isak in the near-darkness. The storm makes the wind whistle sharply through the tree branches outside, the rain hammering the roof and the pavements, the thunder still crackling.

‘I am falling for you,’ Even says, quietly. ‘And I want to be with you. Don’t you know that?’

Isak lets his head fall until their foreheads are pressed together. He never expected those words. He never expected any of this. And now he’s wrapped around the one person he’s now terrified of losing, and it’s another thing that could go wrong.

He leaves another soft kiss on Even’s lips. 

‘I’ve wanted you since the moment you walked into that godforsaken archive room. I wanted you then and I want you now and I’ll want you just as badly tomorrow.’

‘Sounds like we know what we’re doing,’ Even retorts with a smirk.

Isak falls silent for a moment. He weighs this decision carefully. He knows that if he agrees, it’ll be the final point of no return. 

‘We can’t fuck this up,’ Isak warns him. ‘Not just because of work. This is so good, we can’t fuck it up. I don’t want to treat it lightly. You know what I’m saying? I don’t want you to wake up in the morning and tell me you can’t do this anymore. This is real.’ He emphasises his point by grabbing hold of Even by the collar.

Even places his hand on Isak’s cheek and caresses it fondly. ‘I know. You’re right. It is real.’

They stay like that, gazing into each other’s eyes for a second, and Isak feels close to bursting. He’s not used to this -- affection, desire, trust, acceptance -- and he doesn’t know how to take it.

‘And we won’t fuck it up. Promise?’ Even says, his eyes dropping to Isak’s lips again.

Isak nods, and kisses him. He kisses him hard, and filthy, and deep. When he pulls back, their lips part with a loud pop. 

‘Promise,’ Isak says, firmly, and leans back in to kiss the man of his life.

\--

‘Just let me.’

‘ _ Nei _ , I’ve got pasta and some vegetables and--’

‘Isak. We’re dating now. Let me buy you dinner.’

‘To be clear, you’re not offering, you’re insisting. And I’m saying we could just cook--’

Isak’s sense of fiscal responsibility is cut short, however, by Even’s lips on his. And that’s a feeling he can’t get accustomed to. Even. Touching him. 

‘It’s only pizza,’ Even says when he pulls back. ‘It’s 8.30 on a worknight. Let’s order in and watch something. It’s not my finest date, but, in my defence, we only started going out half an hour ago.’

Isak can’t help the giggle that bursts out of him. He feels giddy, like he’s floating. All they’ve done since they made their promise is make out on the couch and laugh into each other’s mouths. Isak can’t remember feeling this damn happy.

‘What do you want to watch?’ he asks.

‘Oh! So, Mutta keeps telling me about this gay ice skating anime he found out about online--’

‘You had me at “gay.”’

They watch the first episode, after which the pizza finally arrives. When the bell rings, Isak jumps up from the sofa and runs downstairs faster than he did on the 7k. He opens the front door to the disgruntled delivery man, and gives him a 50% tip as apology for working out in the storm. 

When Isak brings the two boxes back up, Even is already waiting at the door to his apartment. The sight of him there, in Isak’s clothes, leaning against the doorframe, sets something off in Isak. He stops at the head of the stairs and takes the view in. Even looks at him quizzically.

‘Is there something on my face?’ he asks, a smile starting to grow.

‘Not yet,’ Isak replies, moving the pizza boxes to one hand, before he paces forward, wraps his right arm around Even’s neck, and kisses him full on the lips. He intends to leave only one, but his body has other ideas now it’s touching Even’s. He bites on Even’s lower lip and runs his right hand down to Even’s ass, squeezing it lightly.

‘Seems like you’re as thirsty as you are hungry,’ Even jokes while their lips are still touching, and Isak groans in annoyance, disentangling his hold from Even, and brushing past him into the flat without a word.

‘You love it really!’ Even yells after him, before closing the door and following Isak inside.

\--

When they devour both pizzas, delightfully full, Isak puts on the third episode and sits on the couch cushion next to Even’s.

 

He wants to curl around him but he doesn’t know how to initiate the physical contact. It’s a strange thing, now, to know he won’t be rejected. But somehow he’s not sure how to unselfconsciously touch Even, like cuddling on the couch is a level of intimacy they haven’t reached yet.

 

Even glances over at him and raises his eyebrows in question. ‘Do I smell bad?’

 

Isak frowns at him. ‘No? Why do you ask?’

 

‘Oh. Then, am I sitting in your seat?’

 

‘...What? What are you talking about?’

 

‘I’m trying to figure out if there’s a particular reason you’re leaving space for Jesus between us, or if--’

 

Isak rolls his eyes again and laughs. ‘Wiseass,’ he mutters, right before he happily scoots over on the couch and pulls Even’s left arm around his shoulders. He rests his head on Even’s shoulder and laces his fingers through Even’s.

 

As they watch the episode, Even occasionally squeezes Isak’s hand, as if to relish the contact again and again. Twice he leans in and kisses the top of Isak’s head. When the scene in front of them shows the main character play seductive, Even sneaks his left knee under Isak’s right leg, and props it up. The small movement is enough to get Isak going, but he pretends he doesn’t notice. He’s still afraid of letting Even in. He’s still wondering if this could really last.

 

‘What’s the time?’ he asks Even when the episode ends.

 

‘Ever tried to eat a clock?’ Even answers instead.

 

‘Huh?’ 

 

‘I asked if you’ve ever tried to eat a clock.’

 

‘I have a feeling I’m about to elbow you in the gut.’

 

‘It’s  _ time-consuming _ ,’ Even says into Isak’s ear. And Isak groans dramatically, like the joke causes him real pain, and he leans away from Even, pushing back his attempts to hold Isak.

 

‘Don’t touch me,’ Isak mumbles into the couch cushions. ‘You’re a disgrace.’

 

‘That’s a harsh thing to say to your boyfriend,’ Even says, his hands wrapped around Isak’s waist.

 

The word makes Isak freeze. Only for a moment, but enough that Even’s hands disappear from him, and there’s silence in the room again.

 

Isak sits back up and turns to face him. Even looks back at him with nervousness all over his face, clearly worried he’s crossed a line.

 

‘I--I shouldn’t have assumed--’ he says, but Isak interrupts him.

 

‘It’s not that,’ Isak says.

 

He wonders when Even is going to realise that Isak will never think he’s too much, when Even will know the extent to which Isak yearns for him, all the time.

 

‘I’ve just never been anyone’s boyfriend before.’

 

Even’s timidity disappears, and is replaced by sheer, uncensored joy. He beams at Isak, his eyes alight with glee, and he takes Isak’s hands in his own. 

 

‘Well then,’ he whispers. ‘Isak Valtersen.’ He kisses Isak’s knuckles, one by one. ‘Will you be my boyfriend?’ He kisses Isak’s wrists. ‘Will I be yours?’

 

Isak wants to sigh and huff and push at Even for being so mawkishly sentimental. But though he lets out a small laugh, he’s more touched by the fact that this is happening, that it’s not something he’s dreaming up as he lies alone in bed.

 

He pulls on Even’s hands with his own until he draws him in for a kiss, and another, and another. He wonders if he could ever stop, if he would ever want to.

 

‘Yes,’ he says simply, before kissing him again. And again.

 

\--

 

‘What do we do tomorrow?’ Isak asks quietly, when the two are cuddling in Isak’s bed. Isak had wondered if reuniting would lead to them immediately having sex again, but by tacit agreement, they touched each other only gently, softly, leading nowhere else. The change of pace was comforting, a reassurance their feelings were more than just physical.

 

But even in the midst of the haven they’d created in Isak’s bedroom, they knew they couldn’t avoid the trouble awaiting them at work.

 

‘Yeah, we’ve definitely crossed a line, haven’t we?’ Even asks, humour heavy in his voice.

 

‘Yeah we have!’ Isak retorts with a gentle slap on his chest.

 

‘It’s ok,’ Even laughs, ‘nothing changes. That’s the thing. We don’t do anything differently. Noone has any reason to suspect unless we give them one.’

 

Isak grumbles, ‘I wish I could fully believe that. What do we do in Geilo at this damn cabin? It’s only the day after tomorrow.’

 

‘Same answer as before,’ Even replies.

 

‘You’re telling me you expect me to spend a weekend in a cabin with you and not have sex?’ Isak says, not even attempting to hide the disbelief in his voice.

 

‘It shouldn’t be that hard. Unless I really am that irresistible.’ 

 

Isak rolls his eyes. ‘You’re so full of yourself.’

 

‘Don’t be grumpy just because  _ you’d  _ rather be full of me.’

 

Isak yells in outrage, and Even laughs. Suddenly they’re in a fake wrestle under the covers. Isak tumbles on top of him, attacking Even with the crown of his head and his shoulders, while Even targets the ticklish parts of Isak’s sides, until they’re both upside down on the bed, panting and giggling. 

 

‘Jerk!’ Isak repeats. Even laughs again, and it offends Isak so much he puts both hands on Even’s arm and tries to push him wholly off the bed. 

 

‘Hey hey hey!’ Even objects, and in a last ditch desperate attempt from falling, he grabs a tight hold of the duvet, but succeeds only in bringing it down with him when Isak finally shunts him from the bed.

 

For a second afterwards, Isak just laughs to himself, seeing the heap of covers and the tuft of Even’s hair beneath. But Even doesn’t move, and Isak worries for a moment if Even’s really angry with him.

 

‘Babe?’ 

 

‘No, I live here now,’ Even grunts.

 

‘Heh?’

 

‘This is where I live. Right here on your floor. Good luck getting the duvet back, I’m not moving.’

 

‘Don’t be such a drama queen,’ Isak says, rolling his eyes again, and leaning forward to grab the duvet back. But Even’s got a firm grip and won’t let Isak unwind him from the blanket burrito he’s folded himself into.

 

‘Even,  _ serr _ , I was just kidding around --’

 

‘Good for you. But this is permanent. Better find some other blankets to nest in.’

 

‘Or you could come back up here and I’ll let you make out with me until we fall asleep.’

 

This offer was met with a measured, pensive silence.

 

‘Even?’

 

‘Yeah ok.’

 

\--

 

‘I have a question,’ Even says, after they’ve kissed and kissed and kissed until Isak’s almost out.

 

Tracing his fingers along Even’s collarbones, Isak hums in response.

 

‘You know we haven’t picked a charity to fundraise for yet?’ Even prompts, while he, too, draws circles on Isak’s arm with his fingertips.

 

‘I was thinking about that, actually,’ Isak admits. 

 

‘Oh yeah?’

 

‘What d’you think about FRI?’

 

Even smiles. Isak can feel it against his forehead. He moves his fingers back and forth across Even’s collarbone, loving the way he can feel Even’s chest rise and fall.

 

‘I think that’s perfect,’ Even whispers, and kisses Isak’s hair.

 

\--

 

Work on Wednesday is tense. Isak insisted that Even go home and shower and change as usual before he went to work, so that there was even less of a reason for anyone to suspect he’d spent the previous night at Isak’s. 

 

Anders was late, as usual, and by that point Isak and Even were both stuck in their mindless work anyway, so there really was no way he could suspect anything had changed. Except for how loudly Isak’s heart beat out a scared stutter against his ribs every time Anders looked his way.

 

Right before the clock ticked towards 5pm, Anders reminded them both of the trip to Geilo the following day, and Even dragged the toe of his shoe up behind Isak’s calf. Startled and annoyed, Isak sent him a sharp glance and Even only barely suppressed a smile. Anders, thankfully, noticed nothing.

 

Wednesday night at home, and Isak is digging in his closet for his thermals and longjohns. Oslo is cold enough in the early months of the year, but the forecast for Geilo this coming weekend is -8 degrees. 

 

Geilo, a ski resort town between Bergen and Oslo, is primarily known as a ski resort -- Isak knows it as the place where Penetrator William’s family had one of their cabins, a luxury holiday home they (allegedly) bought for a million kroner. The town is in the Hallingdal valley, and its sole functions are as skiing hotspot, and as gateway to two national parks, known for its wealthy residents and even wealthier tourists. 

 

The last news report about Geilo was about some Russian oligarch, who’d accidentally skied into a small reindeer foal and been brutally attacked by its mother, after which he’d tried to sue both the National Park and the ski resort. Instead he got heavily fined by both, while on an overnight prison stay, for endangering the protected wildlife. Between that and William’s family, Isak has a strong suspicion about how well he’s going to fit in with the other people on this trip. At least, the other people who aren’t his boyfriend.

 

Just as that thought occurs, Isak’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn’t need to check the caller ID to know it’s Even.

 

‘Hei,’ he says, one hand holding the phone to his ear, the other moving around the bottom of his wardrobe.

 

Even doesn’t greet back before he asks, ‘So how many condoms should I bring?’

 

Startled by this, and nearly dropping the phone on the floor, Isak objects, ‘Even!  _ Hva faen _ \--’

 

‘I’m thinking at least 4. But I’m open to suggestions. Obviously I got a new bottle of lube, too. I’d considered buying some flavoured stuff but I figured we could work up to that--’

 

‘Even, you are not bringing  _ any  _ prophylactics, lubricant, contraceptive devices, or sex toys of any kind to Anders’ cabin. I’m serious.’ Isak realises by the time he’s finished speaking he’s standing up straight with one hand on his hip. 

 

‘Fuck I love it when you’re bossy,’ Even sighs.

 

‘ _ Even! _ ’

 

‘Fine, fine. No fun stuff. Though if I happen to bring coconut oil for my hair just be aware that can double as--’

 

‘Forget it.’

 

\--

 

The next morning, Even arrives at Isak’s apartment building in his mama’s car. Anders is already driving up with three of his friends, so Isak and Even have three blissful hours to themselves. The skies are clear, and blue, and there’s a bitterly cold wind that makes Isak’s nose hurt a little, but the weather is so bright he can’t help but feel happy about it.

 

Even hooks his phone up to the car speakers and starts playing some music Isak doesn’t recognise. It’s Norwegian, and a male singer, sometimes rapping and sometimes singing. It switches between electronic beats and piano riffs. He likes it.

 

They drive first through Sandvika, by the bridge  [ Monet ](http://www.artic.edu/aic/collections/artwork/86998) painted (as Even points out), then they meander along Tyrifjorden, so named for all the pine trees around it, and soon they’re driving by Kr ø deren lake, the halfway point. 

 

Not long after Flå, Isak spots a sign for a zoo, and asks to stop, but Even reminds him they only have a few hours’ sunlight and he doesn’t want to be driving to Geilo in the dark for the first time. Isak sulks.

 

‘Come on! Bears, Even! Real bears! And lynx!’ Isak says, gesturing sharply at the road signs for the zoo.

 

‘Isak, we really can’t,’ Even says gently.

 

‘Pleeeease!’

 

‘Look I didn’t want to tell you this but, my Dad told me something about that zoo.’

 

Isak pauses -- Even’s tone is sombre. ‘What? Did someone get hurt there or something?’ he asks.

 

‘He knows a guy who went there, but all they had on display was a dog.’

 

Jolted by this, Isak frowns. ‘What are you talking about? The signs say there are like 30 crocodiles as well as elk and shit. He only saw one dog?’

 

‘Yeah,’ Even nods, solemnly. ‘It was a shih tzu.’

 

Isak snaps, ‘What does it matter what kind of--’ 

 

He stops himself when he sees the smirk grow on Even’s face. Then he repeats what Even says in his head. And he shouts.

 

‘ _ YOU FUCKING JACKASS! _ ’ 

 

When Isak starts seeing signs for the Gardnos crater not long after, he asks Even to stop so he can check it out. Even doesn’t attempt to put up a fight.

 

\--

 

They don’t get to the cabin til well after sunset, and Isak feels just a little bad for delaying the journey -- not much, though. Still, at one point in the drive from Geilo town centre out into the mountain tracks, which were pitch black in the darkness, Isak can sense how anxious Even is about driving. Not knowing how else to help, he gently places his hand on top of where Even’s is on the gearstick, and links their fingers together. It feels more vulnerable than anything else they’ve done.

 

They pull up outside Anders’ cabin, recognising the Audi parked outside, and Even switches off the engine.

 

‘One last kiss off-road?’ he asks.

 

Isak glances over at him, far too eager to agree, but he shakes his head. ‘They might be watching out the window.’

 

Even stares openly at Isak’s lips and sighs. ‘Are you sure?’

 

Isak punches him on the arm. ‘Stop staring!’

 

When they enter the cabin, Anders and his three friends are already there, drinking beers on the couch while they watch  _ The Hangover _ . 

 

‘Halla gutta,’ Anders drawls, clearly already a little drunk, and waves in their direction, without moving his eyes from the screen. ‘This is Mathias, Lucas, and Felix,’ he says, gesturing at each guy in turn, ‘gutta, this is Even, and Isak.’

 

Isak nods at them, tight-lipped, while Even waves happily and says, ‘Nice to meet you, guys. We brought some extra beer and food.’

 

‘Nice one!’ Anders says, ‘just throw it in the kitchen for now. You guys’ bedroom is the last one on the right.’

 

Isak glances around the space for the first time -- it’s lovely, all polished wood, with minimalist furnishings. The living room is open plan with the well-stocked kitchen space -- the two rooms are separated only by a breakfast bar. Even walks over to the fridge, puts in the beers and food, and sticks the canvas bag back in his backpack. 

 

Anders and his friends are entirely focused on the movie again, laughing loudly and burping along to it, and Even nods his head towards the hallway for Isak to follow.

 

They walk down past a large bathroom with a corner bath and separate shower, past a bedroom on the right, another on the left, and finally find their own, the last on the right.

 

They can still clearly hear the film from the other end of the cabin, which, Isak thinks grimly, proves how easily sound moves through the walls.  _ Definitely no sex _ .

 

Even opens the door into a snug room with a kingsize bed, fitted with fluffy pillows and two woollen throws at the bottom of the duvet. Each side has a bedside cabinet with its own thin-legged tripod lamp. There’s a wardrobe in one corner, barely large enough to hold five hangers in it, and a tiny pine writing desk with its own leather inlay. 

 

‘I wonder if Anders made the bed,’ Even whispers, dropping his backpack on the small chair in front of the desk.

 

‘As if!’ Isak protests. ‘Definitely a maid.’ He stashes his backpack on what he’s decides is his side of the bed (the one on the right, closest to the door). The bed is so large in the room that he has to step over his backpack to get to the bedside cabinet.

 

He’s rifling through the drawers -- in which he finds coasters, a guide to the ski slopes around Geilo, some old road maps, and, strangely, a packet of carrot seeds -- and doesn’t notice Even step onto the bed, crawl up to him, and then grab him without warning.

 

‘Even--?’

 

It’s only when he’s on his back on the bed, Even on all fours on top of him, that he catches up with what’s happened.

 

‘Having fun?’ he asks, humourlessly, looking up at his beaming boyfriend.

 

‘Not yet,’ Even says, dipping down to press his lips to Isak’s.

 

But Isak turns his head, and Even’s kiss lands on his cheek. ‘And just  _ what  _ do you think you’re doing?’ he says, annoyed, glaring up at Even.

 

‘Please, baby, Just one,’ Even mumbles, moving his lips over to try and kiss Isak properly, but Isak keeps turning his head til he’s facedown in the duvet.

 

‘ _ Nei _ ,’ he protests, shoving Even away. ‘Even,  _ serr _ , they’ll hear--’

 

At that, Even stops holding himself up, and drops his weight on top of Isak with a resigned huff.

 

Despite Isak’s groan of pain and annoyed protests, he stays there. After a while, Isak gives up trying to push him off. 

 

Instead, his shoves turn gentle, and his arms cradle around Even’s shoulders -- Even, who dips his head into Isak’s neck in a silent request for comfort, and they stay like that, for a few minutes, silently, and Isak dares to leave a kiss on the crown of Even’s head.

 

Then, Anders’ voice from the living room -- ‘Even! Isak! You’re missing Mike Tyson!’

 

‘Sounds like we’re being summoned,’ Isak murmurs into Even’s hair.

 

Even sighs and then gets on all fours again, looking down at Isak with a smirk that he finds far too attractive.

 

‘We’ll continue this later,’ he promises, before leaving Isak on the bed with a pounding heart.

\--

 

They’re obliged to watch the rest of  _ The Hangover _ , followed by  _ The Hangover II _ , and it’s nearly 11pm when Anders suggests they round off the night by watching  _ The Hangover III. _ Isak looks at Even in terror, and he covers for both of them by making an excuse about wanting to go up to Gullsteinhovda before the rest of the tourists arrive.

 

‘Fair,’ Lucas says, and Anders’ protest dies in his throat. Mathias and Felix start arguing the merits of Kikuttoppen versus Gullsteinhovda for slalom skiing, and they lose track of Isak and Even slowly exiting the living room.

 

That night, Isak doesn’t sleep much. He’d insisted to Even they couldn’t so much as cuddle, in case Anders woke them up at some point in the morning and wondered why they were entangled. Despite his obvious hurt, Even agreed, and stayed firmly on his side of the bed.

 

But it’s 3am, and the moonlight is clear coming through the window, lighting up the bedsheets, which are far too plentiful between him and the man he wants to touch so badly.

 

He turns over, again, his back to Even, and tells himself it’s not as bad as it feels. He just needs to sleep. But after a few minutes, he’s restless again, so he turns over to lie supine on the bed, his hands by his sides. 

 

It’s then he feels Even’s hand slide into his own under the covers, and interlink their fingers. It fills him with warmth from head to toe, and he hears himself gasp just a little.

 

‘Under the covers is fine, right?’ Even asks, turning his head to face Isak.

 

Even’s face is lit up by the way the moonlight is reflecting off Isak’s own skin. He’s beautiful, so beautiful. 

 

‘Yeah, it’s ok,’ Isak whispers, squeezing his hand.

 

They sleep like that for the rest of the night.

 

\--

 

And so it becomes their new dynamic for the duration of the trip. They ski with the boys, eat with the boys, drink with the boys, and whenever Even cracks a joke or bites back his clear displeasure with something, Isak hsa to catch himself from touching him. It’s harder than he expected. He resents having to keep this secret, as much as he’s terrified of it coming to light.

 

Each night, they fall asleep holding hands under the duvet, and don’t even attempt a kiss, in case the sound travels to the room next door, where Anders is sharing with Lucas.

 

It’s the early mornings, before anyone else is awake, that Isak relishes. He wakes up to see Even still asleep, soft and warm, and it takes all his will power not to jump on top of him and bring him into consciousness with a kiss, or a blowjob, or some light nipple play, or a healthy grab of both ass cheeks, or -- 

 

His thoughts go there, often. But he holds back, content, somewhat, to wake up with Even’s hand in his.

 

It’s their last morning and Isak is awake before Even as usual. It’s close to 6am, it’s still pitch black outside, but Isak can hear some of the birds outside the window announce it’s nearly morning. He squeezes Even’s hand, and Even stirs a little. The calm and quiet makes Isak restless. He’s had to share Even far too much the past few days. And watch him bend over while he gets dressed in the morning, crouch before a ski jump, laugh while they drink beer, refuse his flirtatious winks, and on top of that, not get a single chance to so much as  _ kiss  _ him--

 

_ Fuck it _ , Isak thinks.  _ No-one’s awake _ .

 

He rolls gently til his left arm and leg are draped over Even, and he starts leaving silent kisses on his neck. Even stirs more, letting out a little groan, arching his back, and pushing the heel of his palm against his eye.

 

‘Isak…?’ he mumbles, still waking up. Isak doesn’t make a responsive sound, just continues leaving kisses as silently as he can. 

 

‘Hey, you said we couldn’t--’

 

Isak silences him with a kiss on the lips. The sound they make as they part is unmistakeable, though, and Isak clamps his mouth shut, wary of the rest of the boys hearing through the walls.

 

‘This isn’t fair,’ Even whispers. ‘You made the boundaries very clear when we got here, and now you wake me up with your sinful fucking lips when I’m already half hard--’

 

‘Shh,’ Isak interrupts. ‘I need to make sure they’re still asleep.’

 

‘Are you seriously considering  _ fucking  _ while--’

 

‘I said  _ shh _ .’

 

They both lie there, motionless, even trying to keep their breathing silent, but no movement comes from the other rooms.

 

‘Ok,’ Isak murmurs quietly. ‘I think we’re fine. And no, I’m not gonna fuck you for the first time when I can’t make any sound. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have some healthy, stress-relieving, and most importantly  _ silent  _ sex before the boys wake up and cockblock me  _ again _ .’

 

‘How do you suggest having silent sex? Blowjobs are definitely out. And so are handjobs, to be fair, I can’t control my voice when I’ve got your hand  _ and  _ your eyes firmly on me--’

 

‘ _ Shh _ , I won’t tell you again,’ Isak cuts him off, and rolls properly on top of Even, his legs on either side of Even’s, as he aligns their groins and starts to grind gently, making sure the bedpost doesn’t move and hit against the wall.

 

‘You-- oh, fuck,’ Even says, realising what Isak’s suggesting.

 

Isak rolls his eyes, too horny and impatient to explain yet again that Even has to shut up, and he clamps his hand over Even’s mouth.

 

The way Even’s eyes widen and his breath stutters tells Isak that it’s a welcome change.

 

He ruts against him again, and the way he can feel Even’s dick start to harden just from stimulation from his own makes Isak’s eyes roll back. He can’t believe he didn’t fuck him when they reunited. He can’t believe he didn’t fuck him in the car. He can’t believe he didn’t ditch the damn skiing and just fuck Even over and over again in this bed.

 

Even’s arms wind around his back and his hands move down to curve over his ass, pulling and pulling so Even starts to set the rhythm. Isak wants to  _ cry  _ from how hot it is, from how badly he wants to see Even come in his own pants, from how much he likes Even taking control.

 

Suddenly, they hear one of the other bedroom doors creak open, and a set of footsteps wander down the hallway. Isak stills, and Even’s eyes fly open, looking up at him in confusion.

 

Without warning, Isak rolls over, bunches up the duvet in front of him, and pretends to be asleep. It’s just in time, too, as their bedroom door opens, and Anders’ head pops in.

 

Isak pretends to spontaneously wake up at the noise, and performs a shoddy interpretation of a yawn. He slowly blinks his eyes open and looks to Anders. ‘Oh, hei,’ he says, and his voice is rough.

 

Anders nods stiffly. ‘Hei,’ he says, glancing to Even, who’s starting to sit upright, the duvet spread across his knees, keeping a healthy space above his groin.

 

‘Morning,’ Even says.

 

‘Yeah, uh,’ Anders says, slowly, ‘we gotta be out by 10 or my parents are gonna lose it. The maids come by then and they don’t wait. So, yeah. See you in a bit.’

 

He closes the door again, and Isak brings his hands to his face and lets out a deep sigh of relief. ‘ _ Fuck _ that was too close.’

 

There’s no reply from Even.

 

Isak takes his hands down from his face and turns over. He sees Even still sitting up, staring at the door, unblinking.

 

‘What’s wrong?’ he asks.

 

‘Nothing,’ Even says, quietly, abruptly shifting his glance to Isak, and letting a fake smile spread on his face.

 

‘I don’t think he knew,’ Isak insists, though he’s nascently aware he’s also trying to convince himself.

 

‘Yeah,’ Even says. ‘I don’t think so either.’

 

They’re quiet at breakfast, but Mathias and Lucas are arguing about who’s got the most bruises, so they’re not taken much notice of. Anders occasionally makes eye contact with Isak, like he was already looking before Isak felt his glance. Isak tries to tell himself it’s nothing, it’s nothing, it’s nothing.

 

\--

 

Isak wakes up in his own bed on Monday morning to the sound of his shrill alarm. He lets out a frustrated grunt, realising his right arm has gone dead in the night with how weirdly he slept on it. He quickly showers, gets dressed, and heads to work, already concocting a plan for how he’s going to approach Anders to eradicate any sense of suspicion.

 

They’d left the cabin before the boys, around 9.30am, and made sure to strip the bed and leave the extra beers for Anders as a parting gift. Even didn’t talk much on the drive back, but he did stop at the zoo for Isak, and they spent two hours holding hands and wandering around, feeding the giraffes and taking pictures of the bears. But Isak knew they were both still fixed on whether or not Anders heard them. Still, they tacitly agreed not to talk about it, knowing their day at work on Monday would tell them either way. 

 

When Even dropped Isak off, he pulled him in for a deep kiss between the seats, and Isak sighed happily into it, and whispered how much he missed this. ‘It’s yours anytime,’ Even whispered back, and Isak rolled his eyes, but leaned in for another anyway.

 

His commute is easier than usual, the tram has a spare seat for him, and he has enough time to get a coffee, an actual made-from-beans coffee, before he goes into work. As he descends in the lift, he feels a little anxious about the day, but tells himself it is all gonna work out. No-one knows anything.

 

When he walks into the archive room, however, it is just Anders and Johanne in there. 

 

Anders is sitting in Even’s seat, and Johanne has her arms folded as she turns to face Isak, with a grim expression.

 

‘Isak, morning. You got a minute to talk?’

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...don't hate me  <3
> 
> I'm working on my fic for the Big Bang this week and next, so it'll be a little while til I update this again (but it won't be as long as last time, work's just been mad).
> 
> Leave a comment if you felt anything, or if you want to request something for next chapter <3 Thanks as always. Alt er love <3


End file.
